Ill  be  fined  for 

ng  in,  OP  in  any  \vay 

ing  this  book* 

1  be  fined  one  cent 
*~ch  day  took  is  overdue. 


* 


SIMPLY  WOMEN 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


SIMPLY  WOMEN 


Selections  from  the  works  of 

MARCEL   PREVOST 


Translated  by 

R.   I.  BRANDON-VAUV1LLEZ 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 
1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
Tm  MACAULAY  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BROTHER  JACK n 

A  KIND  HEART 18 

AN  INTERNATIONAL  FLIRTATION 27 

THE  ADJUTANT 33 

EXPERIENCE 41 

RECONCILIATION 49 

CONFESSION  OF  FAITH 64 

HER  FAVORITE  AUTHOR 73 

EARLY  MORNING  MAIL 80 

GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY 86 

LES  YEUX 106 

ONE  ROOM  OR  Two? 114 

A  NOVEL  OF  PASSION 130 

THE  GUEST 139 

THE  CONNECTING  LINK 147 

AFTER  THE  FALL 154 

A  FRIEND 161 

A  RIVAL 168 

TESTAMENT 174 

RESPECT 180 

MY  FIRST  REMORSE 187 

THE  HUSBAND  OF  MADEMOISELLE  HEUDIER  .     .  192 

5 


2131918 


SIMPLY  WOMEN 


SIMPLY  WOMEN 

BROTHER  JACK 

(Mon.  frere  Jacques} 

Madame  veuve  Laroche-Thiebault 
To  Madame  d'Eprun  : 

WHAT  is  happening  at  Bourges,  dear  Colette? 
What  is  going  on  amongst  our  friends?  Is  our 
small  little  set  still  scandalizing  the  virtuous  bour- 
geois of  Bourges  with  its  madcap  doings  ?  No  mat- 
ter how  laboriously  we  are  trying  to  appear  fast 
and  pretending  we  are  living  the  Parisian  life  we 
cannot  escape  from  the  fact  that  we  are  still  in  the 
melancholic  town  of  Bourges,  asleep  in  the  shadow 
of  its  cathedral. 

I  was  so  very  tired  of  our  good  old  town  that, 
unable  to  endure  it  for  another  minute,  I  took  the 
express  for  Paris  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one. 
Long  live  the  freedom  of  widowhood  1 

However,  I  will  be  frank  with  you — being  bored 
was  not  the  only  reason  why  I  went  away.  I  had 
been  imprudent  enough  to  grant  a  rendezvous  for 
the  next  day  at  my  own  house  to  Captain  d'Exiles. 

9 


io  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

From  a  distance  it  seemed  very  pleasant,  but  when 
it  came  to  the  point  of  doing,  why — I'd  much 
rather  go  to  hear  a  sermon.  We  are  all  a  little 
like  that ! 

As  the  train  was  carrying  me  away  towards 
Paris  I  found  myself  laughing  like  a  schoolgirl  at 
the  thought  of  Exiles  coming  to  my  house,  care- 
fully perfumed,  his  hair  curled,  ready  to  conquer. 
I  pictured  at  the  same  time  the  mischievous  face  of 
my  maid  Solange  saying  to  him :  "Madame  begged 
me  to  tell  the  Capitaine  that  she  was  very  sorry — 
Madame  was  obliged  to  go  to  Paris  on  important 
business  concerning  her  brother — family  affairs — 
you  know " 

And  I  could  even  hear  in  imagination  the  "Sacre 
nom  d — "  of  the  captain  on  his  way  back  to  the 
barracks. 

The  company  of  M.  d'Exiles  will  have  a  very 
uncomfortable  time  for  a  few  days  while  manoeu- 
vring. 

Solange's  story  is  partly  true.  I  went  to  my 
brother's  apartment  when  I  reached  Paris,  having 
previously  sent  him  a  telegram  to  expect  me  at 
about  eleven  p.  M.,  and  it  was  about  eleven-thirty 
when  I  rang  his  door  bell. 

Jack  has  a  very  comfortable  apartment  on 
the  ground  floor,  Rue  des  Ecuries  dy  Artois, 
which  is  wonderfully  furnished.  One  per- 


BROTHER  JACK  n 

ceives  at  once  the  hand  of  a  woman,  perhaps  of 
several. 

Well,  Jack  was  dressing  for  supper.  He  was 
carefully  tying  his  cravat  under  the  supervision  of 
his  valet. 

"What  the  deuce  brings  you  to  Paris  so  sud- 
denly?" he  said  to  me. 

"Dear  Jack,"  I  replied.  "Do  not  scold  me!  I 
was  bored  to  death  at  Bourges." 

"Truly !  Bourges  is  not  very  amusing  twelve 
months  in  the  year — but  you  really  do  not  intend  to 
stay  here  to-night,  I  hope?"  "Yes,  for  to-night. 
To-morrow  I'll  get  settled  elsewhere." 

Jack  seemed  very  much  embarrassed.  Evidently 
my  arrival  was  very  inopportune.  However,  as  he 
is  very  nice  and  very  fond  of  his  younger  sister,  he 
pretended  to  be  pleased. 

"Very  well,  I'll  give  the  order  to  have  my  room 
prepared  for  you.  I'll  go  and  spend  the  night  with 
a  friend.  Only,  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  leave  you 
alone  for  supper." 

"Oh,  Jack!  I  was  so  happy.  I  have  just  ar- 
rived, and  you  are  going  to  leave  me !" 

"I  cannot  have  you  with  me,"  said  he.  "I  am 
going  where  young  widows  are  not  allowed." 

His  valet  had  discreetly  retired.  I  went  to  Jack 
and  smilingly  said: 

"You  are  going  to  have  supper  with  ladies?" 


12  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

"Exactly." 

"Gentlemen  and  ladies?" 

"One  man  only.  You  do  not  know  him.  He  is 
a  nobleman  I  met  in  Bucharest — Count  Ildescu." 

"Who  are  the  women?" 

"Lucienne  d'Argenson,  Fanny  Love,  and  the 
beautiful  Cordoba.  I  know  I  am  not  going  to  en- 
joy myself.  The  women  bore  me  to  death.  Ildescu 
is  wild  to  know  them,  and  I  am  introducing  him  to 
all  three  at  once  in  order  to  be  done  with  it.  He'll 
leave  me  in  peace  after  that." 

"Well — take  me  with  you !" 

I  gave  Jack  no  time  to  protest,  but  sat  upon  his 
knee,  and  with  much  petting  explained  to  him  that 
I,  too,  felt  like  Ildescu ;  that  Bourges  was  as  bad  as 
Bucharest;  that  like  him  I  was  wild  to  see  Fanny 
Love,  Lucienne  d'Argenson — the  beautiful  Cor- 
doba. 

"It  is  perfectly  absurd.  Suppose  you  should  be 
seen?" 

"I'll  wear  a  thick  veil  until  we  get  in  the  private 
dining-room.  There  will  be  no  danger  after  that. 
Neither  your  friend  nor  the  women  know  me." 

"They  might  say  awful  things." 

"Surely,  I  am  no  prude! — Well,  if  they  go  too 
far,  you  can  take  me  away." 

In  short,  as  it  was  getting  near  dinner  time  and 
as  I  would  not  give  in,  Jack  finally  consented.  It 


BROTHER  JACK  13 

was  agreed  that  I  was  to  play  the  role  of  a  friend 
of  Jack's  making  my  debut  in  Paris. 

I  had  in  my  trunk  a  pretty,  stylish  evening  dress. 
I  put  it  on.  Jack  played  maid.  He  was  beginning 
to  enter  into  the  zest  of  the  thing. 

"By  Jove,"  he  said,  when  I  was  ready,  "you  arc 
a  great  deal  better  looking  than  the  geese  we  are 
going  to  see.  Ildescu  will  lose  his  head.  Be  care- 
ful. He  is  dangerous." 

The  supper  was  to  be  served  at  Joseph's  at  one 
o'clock.  Fanny  Love  and  the  beautiful  Cordoba 
were  not  able  to  come  until  after  the  theatre, 
Comte  Ildescu  was  to  bring  Lucienne  d'Argenson. 
We  were  the  last  to  arrive  and  were  fifteen  minutes 
late. 

Oh,  dear  Colette !  you  should  have  seen  the  look 
those  three  women  gave  me  when  my  brother  in- 
troduced me  as  Mademoiselle  Renee  de  Chatel- 
lerault,  who  had  come  to  Paris  to  stay.  Men  never 
paid  me  compliments  that  pleased  me  as  well  as  the 
pout  from  those  three  pretty  faces — for  they  are 
charming — the  creatures. 

I  was  also  very  much  flattered  to  see  the  angry 
flash  of  their  eyes  as  they  realized  I  was  as 
pretty  as  they  were — they  criticised  my  dress.  I 
could  hear  them  making  fun  of  it — while 
Ildescu,  already  very  much  smitten,  was  shower- 
ing attentions  on  me.  Truly  they  were 


14  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

much  better  dressed,  in  better  taste  and  more  ele- 
gantly. 

We  sat  down  at  the  table.  My  place  was  be- 
tween Ildescu  and  Mile.  d'Argenson.  I  drank  two 
glasses  of  champagne  as  quickly  as  I  could  to 
ease  my  conscience,  after  which  I  felt  ready  for 
anything. 

We  spoke  of  the  theatres.  Fanny  Love  and  the 
beautiful  Cordoba  gave  us  their  impressions  on 
contemporary  dramatic  art.  They  seemed  much 
better  informed  and  hardly  as  silly  as  the  women 
of  our  aristocratic  set.  Lucienne  d'Argenson  gave 
us  sketches  on  society,  upon  the  life  of  the  mon- 
dains — upon  the  reduction  of  revenues.  For  in- 
stance, she  said:  "In  two  years  there  will  be  no 
more  rich  people  left  in  Paris,"  etc.  I  remembered 
having  heard  the  same  opinion  expressed  by  the 
wife  of  the  Treasurer.  Jack  listened  gravely  and 
replied  accordingly.  Ildescu,  instead  of  listening, 
began  to  whisper  in  my  ear  all  sorts  of  foolish  non- 
sense, quite  a  different  kind  from  that  we  hear  from 
the  men  of  our  set,  meanwhile  looking  at  me  admir- 
ingly. 

"Well,"  I  thought,  "this  supper  is  quite  proper! 
Evidently  the  women  do  not  feel  at  home  with  me. 
They  must  think  I  am  silly  and  provincial — I  am 
going  to  make  them  feel  more  at  ease." 

I  drank  another  glass  of  champagne  and  began 


BROTHER  JACK  15 

telling  the  pretty  adventure  you  told  us  so  succes9- 
fully  the  other  night  at  the  colonel's  dinner — the 
story  of  the  Confetti  Revelateur.  Ah,  Colette!  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  the  faces  of  the  three 
women.  They  affected  not  to  hear.  "Oh,"  they 
haughtily  whispered  when  I  got  through  !  Jack,  his 
face  quite  red,  thought  it  was  his  duty  to  apologize 
for  me  to  his  neighbor.  "You  know  she  is  quite 
green — later  on  she'll  know  better."  Ildescu  was 
laughing  heartily. 

"Ah,  very  funny! — very  funny! — Most  amus- 
ing !  Most  Parisian !"  he  said.  "She  is  adorable !" 
and  his  knee  tried  to  enter  into  conversation  with 
mine  under  the  table.  However,  I  do  not  like  to 
have  a  man  take  such  liberties,  especially  without 
my  permission,  but  said  to  myself :  "Evidently  the 
situation  demands  it.  If  I  show  what  I  feel  they 
will  guess  at  once  that  I  am  not  what  I  pretend  to 
be."  Suddenly  the  shrill  voice  of  Fanny  Love  was 
heard  saying,  at  the  same  time  striking  roughly 
poor  Jack's  hand  with  her  fan: 

"Look  here !  I'll  thank  you  for  not  tearing  my 
dress  with  your  feet !  Where  do  you  think  you  are  ? 
At  Chatellerault?" 

"At  Chatellerault!"  I  understood.  This  was 
aimed  at  me  directly. 

Supper  ended  almost  in  silence.  Lucienne  and 
the  beautiful  Cordoba  kept  the  conversation  going. 


1 6  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

They  spoke  about  gold  mines.  At  half-past  two  we 
left  the  restaurant.  The  three  women  bade  me 
good-by  in  a  very  stiff  way.  Cabs  were  ready. 
Ildescu  wanted  to  come  with  me. 

"Hold  on,  my  dear,"  said  Jack,  "I  am  going  to 
see  madame  home." 

Poor  Roumanian  comte.  He  looked  so  sad  that 
I  allowed  him  to  squeeze  my  hands  as  we  parted. 

Once  alone  in  Jack's  coupe  I  angrily  said  to  him: 

"You  cannot  make  me  believe  that  your  suppers 
are  always  like  this  one!  You  call  that  having  n, 
good  time!  You  must  have  told  them  who  I  am. 
It  is  outrageous !  If  you  hadn't  I  would  have  had 
such  a  good  time !" 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,"  said  Jack,  "that 
all  our  suppers  are  like  this  one.  From  time  to 
time  some  one  quarrels.  Some  one  has  hysterics. 
That's  the  most  interesting  part — otherwise  they 
are  just  like  this  one.  Not  very  amusing,  are  they, 
but  we  must  pass  away  the  evening." 

"Surely  they  are  not  always  as  proper,  the 
women?  I  suppose  that  in  the  privacy  of " 

"Ah,"  replied  Jack,  smiling,  "truly  in  the  in- 
timacy of — it  is  quite  different.  However,  intimacy 
for  them  means  work — work  for  which  they  are 
paid.  They  will  not  work  for  nothing  when  it  is 
time  for  them  to  rest.  Love,  you  see,  for  such 
women  is  their  stock  in  trade." 


BROTHER  JACK  17 

This  last  remark  of  my  brother  was  not  without 
depth.  I  meditated  over  it  after  I  retired  and  you 
may  be  sure,  dear  Colette,  that  my  meditations 
were  extremely  moral.  Really,  it  is  anything  but 
funny  to  be  compelled  to  make  love  to  any  one,  say 
for  instance  like  Ildescu,  with  whom  you  have  had 
supper. 

Poor  women  !  To  think  we  envy  their  apparently 
gay  life.  How  well  I  understand  now  their  de- 
sire to  play  the  part  of  being  good  and  proper  for 
a  change,  just  as  we  sometimes  pretend  we  are  all 
cocottes  whenever  we  have  the  leisure. 

I  shall  be  back  home  on  Tuesday  next.  Do  an- 
nounce my  arrival  to  the  captain.  He  is  much  pre- 
ferable to  the  Roumanian.  I  want  to  tell  you  that 
I  found  while  looking  over  the  personals  in  the 
morning  paper  the  following : 

"Young  man;  rich;  who  dined  with  a  delicious 
woman  from  Chautellerault,  is  dying  to  see  her 
again — I." 

"I"  is  Ildescu. 

Of  the  four  of  us,  Fanny  Love,  Cordoba,  d'Ar- 
genson  and  myself,  I,  the  amateur,  had  won  Il- 
descu. 


A  KIND  HEART 

(Bon  Cceur) 

Rue  Rembrant,  on  the  first  floor  of  a  very  pretty 
house  near  the  pare  Monceau.  Here  is  a  tableau 
lighted  by  the  softer  sun  of  the  last  days  in  Sep- 
tember. 

Time,  1 1  a.  m. 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS,  President  of 
the  P.  L.  M.  Railroad,  is  seated  reading  his  mail. 
He  is  about  fifty  years  old,  but  looks  younger, 
thanks  to  the  progess  of  modern  chemistry. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON,  a  young  vaude- 
ville actress,  looking  very  pretty  in  her  laces,  is 
glancing  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  reads. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  What  kind  of 
writing  is  this  ?  A  woman's  ? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYER.  It  is.  (Keeps 
on  reading.) 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (striking  a  dig- 
nified attitude  suggesting  jealousy) .  And  you  have 
the  nerve  to  read  letters  from  women  in  my  house ! 
before  me  I  Give  me  that  letter ! 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS  (calmly). 
You  want  it  very  much  ? 

18 


A  KIND  HEART  19 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  Give  me  that 
letter ! 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  I  beg  you 
to  remember  that  I  have  never  asked  you  to  show 
me  your  correspondence. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  It  isn't  the 
same  thing — I  do  not  receive  letters  from  women 
—  (with  authority) .  Give  me  that  letter !  Quick! 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS  (giving  her 
the  letter}.  Here  it  is.  (He  looks  at  Mademoi- 
selle Nina  Ninon  with  an  ironical  smile  as  she  reads 
the  letter] . 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (interrupting 
her  reading  by  exclamations] .  "My  darling :  (Oh! 
scandalizing]  my  darling — I  have  been  thinking 
about  you  a  great  deal  during  the  last  few  days, 
and  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  should  have  to  re- 
main in  Paris.  ( Yon  know — you  can  go  away  if 
you  are  bored — )  sh — should  have  to  remain  in 
Paris — We  are  having  delightful  weather  here — 
(where  is  that?  Here.  Oh,  I  see,  Houlgate,  Villa 
des  Oeillets] — and  we  never  let  a  day  pass  without 
a  ride  or  a  picnic.  In  spite  of  all  this  I  should  be 
very  sad  away  from  you,  if  I  did  not  have  the  chil- 
dren. ( The  children,  how  absurd!  It's  from  your 
wife.}  Louise  has  not  been  very  well.  I  think  she 
played  too  long  on  the  sand  beach.  As  for  Maxime, 
he  is  very  well.  He  fights  with  all  the  little  boys 


20  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

and  usually  comes  out  victorious,  but  you  have  no 
idea  in  what  condition  his  clothes  usually  are! 
(Nina  Ninon  reads  on  very  seriously  without  inter- 
ruption.) Almost  all  our  friends  have  gone  away. 
Only  the  Boues  are  left  and  they  are  very  kind  to 
me.  Fraulein  is  teaching  me  German.  It  fills  up 
the  time  that  is  not  taken  up  by  the  children.  How- 
ever, the  days  would  not  be  so  long  if  I  heard  from 
you  oftener.  I  do  not  wish  to  complain,  but  I  do 
worry  when  a  week  passes  without  a  letter  from 
you.  Will  you  not  try  to  steal  away  a  few  minutes 
from  your  work,  and  if  you  are  not  too  tired,  write 
to  me,  if  only  two  words,  telling  me  you  are  well 
and  love  me  ? 

"I  shall  write  every  day  as  usual,  regretting  only 
that  my  letters  are  not  more  entertaining,  but  my 
life  is  so  quiet  here — I  shall  see  you  soon  again, 
sweetheart.  The  little  ones  send  their  love  and  I 
the  best  tenderness  of  my  heart. 

"MARIE." 

(Mademoiselle  Nina  Ninon  having  finished  her 
reading,  remains  a  moment  very  thoughtful,  the  let- 
ter still  in  her  hand.) 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  How  old  is 
your  wife? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.   Thirty-one. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  How  long  have 
you  been  married? 


A  KIND  HEART  21 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  Eight  years. 
(Silence.) 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  Is  she  pretty? 
(Monsieur  Lambert  considers  a  minute.}  If  she 
is  not  pretty,  why  did  you  marry  her?  For  her 
money?  (Silence.}  How  mercenary  men  are! — 
And  she  loves  you,  too,  poor  woman.  Her  letter 
is  awfully  nice — (Silence.}  Why  do  you  deceive 
her? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS  (smiling}. 
Look  at  yourself  in  the  mirror. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  No  compli- 
ments, I  beg  of  you — if  I  am  a  pretty  blonde ;  if  I 
have  to  sing  idiotic  things  I  needn't  be  silly.  On 
the  contrary,  I  think  a  great  deal — and  I  observe — 
I  see  well — I  do  understand  a  great  many  things. 
I  could  write  a  novel  about  men. 

(Monsieur  Lambert-Desnoyers  smiles.} 

Why  do  you  laugh?  Certainly  I  could  write  a 
novel — and  I  could  write  it  about  men. 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  I  didn't  say 
you  couldn't — what  are  you  driving  at? 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (thinking). 
What  am  I  driving  at? — Men  are  not  very  won- 
derful after  all — your  wife  is  twenty  years  younger 
than  you.  She  positively  adores  you — she  writes 
you  lovely  letters — you  have  two  children  and  you 
leave  them  to  have  a  good  time  in  Paris  (excit- 


22  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

edly] .  You  are  perfectly  disgusting,  and  if  your 
wife  were  here  I  should  tell  her  this.  Do  you  hear? 
I  should  tell  her:  "Madame,  your  husband  is  dis- 
gusting."— There ! 

(Mademoiselle  Nina  Ninon,  after  this  tirade, 
sits  down  and  looks  up  at  Monsieur  Lambert-Des- 
noyers,  with  the  air  of  an  outraged  moralist.  Still 
calm  he  looks  at  her  with  a  quizzical  smile.} 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  Why  don't  you 
say  something?  You  sit  there  like  a  log.  You 
might  at  least  be  polite  and  answer  me — 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  But,  my 
dear,  I  really  have  nothing  to  answer.  You  are 
right. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  Ah,  you  agree 
with  me  then? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  I  do  agree 
with  you  fully.  You  have  convinced  me.  I  know 
now  what  there  is  left  for  me  to  do. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.    At  last ! 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  I  shall  take 
the  first  train  for  Houlgate  and  join  my  wife  and 
children.  It  will  be  hard  for  me  not  to  see  you 
again,  but 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (jumping  up}. 
What!  Not  see  me  again !  Are  you  crazy? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  Well!  my 
dear — you  are  telling  me  that  I  am  deceiving  my 


A  KIND  HEART  23 

wife  and  leaving  her  to  herself.  I  will  go  home 
and  be  what  I  am  not,  a  faithful  husband.  That's 
very  simple. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  In  other  words, 
after  deceiving  your  wife,  you'll  deceive  me !  You 
are  a  horrible  man.  Moreover,  you  have  no  right 
to  leave  me.  It  would  be  very  cowardly.  You 
know  what  I  gave  up  for  you  !  Now  I  do  regret  it 
more  than  I  can  say.  ( Tears  and  hysterics — 
Monsieur  Lambert-Desnoyers  remains  calm.} 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT  -  DESNOYERS.  Listen, 
dear — I  have  no  desire  to  leave  you,  as  you  say.  I 
thought  you  were  sending  me  away  because  your 
morals  were  shocked.  Since  you  have  changed 
your  opinion 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (quickly}.  I 
have  not  changed  my  opinion.  I  think  that  when 
a  man  has  a  wife  and  children  he  should  be  with 
them.  That's  all.  As  long  as  you  are  amusing 
yourself,  you  had  better  be  doing  it  with  me  than 
some  one  else,  n'est-ce  pas?  for  your  own  good  first 
— and  for  your  wife's  also.  Heaven  knows  what 
kind  of  woman  her  husband  might  have  found ! 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  Assuredly, 
she  would  be  grateful  to  you  if  she  only  knew. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  Perhaps  more 
than  you  think!  I  like  the  little  woman  who  is 
studying  German  and  looking  after  her  children  at 


24 

the  seashore  while  her  husband  is  having  a  good 
time  in  Paris  with  actresses,  and  I  want  you  to  be 
nice  to  her.  (Monsieur  Lambert-Desnoyers  raises 
his  eyebrows.)  You  needn't  go  back  to  Houlgate — 
but  begin  by  answering  the  letter  you  received  this 
morning  (with  authority}  immediately. 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  You  want 
me  to  write  a  letter? 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  I  certainly  do. 
Here  is  a  pen,  paper,  ink,  before  you — begin.  Do 
you  hear? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.*  Are  you 
going  to  dictate  the  letter,  also? 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  You're  laugh- 
ing? Well,  that's  precisely  what  I  intend  to  do. 
You  haven't  heart  enough  to  answer  decently  a  let- 
ter from  a  woman  like  your  wife,  so  I  shall  dictate 
it.  Are  you  ready? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  I  am  ready. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (dictating}. 
"My  beloved  little  sweetheart?"  (Monsieur  Lam- 
bert-Desnoyers does  not  write.}  Well,  what  are 
you  waiting  for? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  I  warn  you 
that  never  in  my  life  have  I  called  my  wife  "My 
beloved  little  sweetheart." 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  So  much  the 
better — it  will  be  a  change — (Monsieur  Lambert- 


A  KIND  HEART  25 

Desnoyers  resigns  himself  and  writes)  :  "I  received 
your  letter.  It  is  a  jewel.  You  do  well  to  love  the 
children.  Women  who  have  children  are  very  for- 
tunate." 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  Why  in  the 
the  deuce  do  you  want  me  to  say  such  a  thing  to  my 
wife  ? 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  Why?  What  I 
am  dictating  isn't  foolish,  is  it?  My  dear,  I  have 
written  many  a  letter  in  my  life — to  ambassadors 
— and  even  to  a  king  once!  Go  on.  (Dictating) 
"I  am  obliged  to  remain  in  Paris  on  very 
important  business,  but  do  not  be  jealous. 
I  do  not  deceive  you."  ( To  Monsieur  Lam- 
bert-Desnoyers)  You  understand  it  is  better  to 
say  that,  so  she  won't  have  any  suspicion.  (Dic- 
tating) "German  is  an  extremely  useful  language. 
It  is  spoken  in  Baden-Baden  and  in  Munich."  (  To 
Monsieur  Lambert-Desnoyers)  I  have  been  in 
those  places  and  it  was  a  bore  not  to  understand 
what  people  said.  (A  thoughtful  moment  of 
silence.)  What  could  we  tell  her?  Well,  what 
you  have  already  written  is  not  bad.  It  will  do 
very  well.  Now — end  with  a  very  affectionate 
farewell — Wait.  What  is  the  color  of  her  hair? 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  Rather — 
brown. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (dictating).  "A 


26  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

bientot,  my  darling  brunette — be  good.  Do  not 
deceive  me.  I  kiss  you  any  way  you  choose." 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.    Oh — 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  Why  do  you  say 
"Oh !"  That  is  the  way  all  love  letters  are  finished. 
I  can  show  you  more  than  a  hundred  letters.  Oh, 
the  children,  I  was  forgetting !  Write — "Tell  the 
children  that  I  love  them  very  much  and  that  I 
have  bought  for  them — (she  thinks)  two  hundred 
francs'  worth  of  toys."  Now  sign — the  envelope 
— there — the  address — that's  right.  Well,  what 
are  you  doing? 

MONSEIUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS.  Well,  I  am 
putting  the  letter  in  my  pocket — I'll  mail  it  when 
I  go  out. 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON.  No — no. — No 
such  thing!  It  would  be  like  you  to  forget  it — 
purposely  or  otherwise.  (She  rings  for  the  maid) 
Here,  Suzanne,  mail  this  letter  immediately ! — 
How  happy  I  am  !— 

MONSIEUR  LAMBERT-DESNOYERS  (aside).  I 
would  give  a  great  deal  to  see  my  wife's  face  when 
she  reads  that  letter — Oh,  well ! 

MADEMOISELLE  NINA  NINON  (tenderly). 
Now,  kiss  your  darling — I  did  well — didn't  I? 
(Interlude — kisses. ) 


AN  INTERNATIONAL  FLIRTATION 

^ 

(Fierge  Etrangere) 

Miss  Ethel  Briggs,  Villa  Belle  Rose,  Saint  Enogat, 
To  M.  Robert  d'Yriac, 

Villa  Chateaubriand,  Dinard: 

You  left  me  last  night,  my  dear  Robert,  after 
our  last  waltz  at  the  Casino  with  an  impatient  word 
and  ugly  look. 

"What  sort  of  woman  are  you?"  you  said,  for- 
getting for  once  that  I  am  not  a  woman,  much  less 
a  woman  belonging  to  you,  but  a  young  girl,  free 
to  do  with  her  heart  as  she  pleases.  And  after  your 
truly  shocking  question  you  left  me  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  looking  at  me,  furthermore,  angrily 
out  of  your  beautiful  black  eyes — for  you  have 
beautiful  eyes — I  love  men  with  black  eyes  and  ex- 
pressive eyebrows. 

It  annoyed  me  to  have  you  leave  me  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening,  although  your  place  at  my  side  was 
immediately  taken  by  M.  Derwent  in  the  flirting 
room.  You  know  him — the  young  Englishman 
who  looks  so  well  in  a  bathing  costume.  He  is  the 
owner  of  two  large  blue  eyes — baby  eyes — which 
make  me  want  to  laugh  every  time  I  look  into  them. 

27 


28  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

I  never  care  to  look  at  him  except  at  bathing  time. 
I  was  therefore  soon  bored  and  asked  papa — who 
by  the  way  was  flirting  with  Mrs.  Wilkinson — to 
take  me  home. 

Once  there  I  stayed  a  long  time  on  the  terrace 
looking  out  over  the  sea,  which  was  then  at  high 
tide.  My  eyes  were  turned  toward  Dinard,  and  I 
could  see  by  moonlight  the  pointed  gables  of  your 
villa  outlined  against  the  sky.  I  thought  you  were 
there  thinking  of  me,  angry  with  me.  It  irritated 
me.  It  seemed  to  me  unjust.  This  young  French- 
man, I  thought,  although  he  may  have  beautiful 
black  eyes  and  is  witty,  is  nevertheless  insufferable. 
Because  it  did  not  suit  me  this  evening  to  go  out  on 
the  Casino  Terrace,  to  let  him — how  would  you  say 
it— caress  my  arms — he  sulks,  and  insolently  asks 
what  sort  of  woman  I  am  and  leaves  me.  Have  I 
been  indiscreet  with  this  young  man  ?  Am  I  differ- 
ent from  other  girls?  Am  I  too  forbidding  for 
men  to  flirt  with  me? 

I  assure  you,  my  dear  Robert,  I  was  humbly 
scrutinizing  myself  and  trying  to  find  out  as 
minutely  as  possible  and  with  much  curiosity  what 
sort  of  a  woman  I  am. 

I  will  tell  you  this  morning  the  result  of  my 
meditation,  so  that  we  may  be  better  friends  when 
we  meet  this  evening — to  flirt  again.  For  you  may 
well  imagine  I  do  not  wish  to  give  up  a  splendid 


AN  INTERNATIONAL  FLIRTATION  29 

flirt  like  you  for  a  misunderstanding.  Is  it  not  nice 
of  me  to  tell  you  all  this  ?  With  you  I  am  as  amia- 
ble as  a  French  girl  would  be. 

You  are  angry  with  me,  dear,  because  although 
I  appear  to  be  very  much  in  love  with  you  before 
other  people  I  do  not  make  use  of  the  first  oppor- 
tunity we  are  alone  to  throw  myself  into  your  arms. 
I  see  quite  well  you  hold  against  me  these  two 
things,  and  that  is  the  reason  you  ask  what  sort  of 
woman  I  may  be.  I  will  not  let  you  caress  my 
arms  on  the  Casino  Terrace.  I  have  no  right  to 
think  your  eyes  are  beautiful,  and  since  I  do  think 
so,  I  myst  let  you  caress  my  arms.  Oh !  how  very 
French  you  are ! 

Listen  to  me  and  try  to  understand  what  I  am 
going  to  endeavor  to  explain,  having  thought  it  out 
for  myself,  last  night,  while  looking  at  the  sea.  I 
have  no  desire  whatever,  my  dear  Robert,  to  fall 
into  the  arms  of  any  young  man,  not  even  yours.  I 
am  not  interested  in  such  things,  at  least  in  doing 
them,  and  when  I  amuse  myself  by  speaking  of 
them,  it  is  always  understood  that  I  am  not  talking 
about  myself.  I  speak  of  them  as  jokes  as  I  would 
of  any  other  pleasantry  and  never  think  of  them 
afterwards.  It  irritates  me  and  makes  me  angry 
to  think  that  Frenchmen,  who  are  such  delightful 
flirts,  always  reduce  flirting  to  caressing  one's  arms 
and  doing  other  shocking  things.  Myself,  my 


30  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

arms,  my  whole  body,  are  something  reserved,  will- 
ing to  be  present  at  a  flirtation,  but  unwilling  to  be 
drawn  into  it.  I  permit  you  to  kiss  my  lips  because 
it  is  customary,  but  I  do  not  like  it,  and  you  have 
noticed  it.  You  are  angry  to  hear  me  say  this. 
Now,  listen  to  something  that  will  please  your 
vanity:  Last  Monday  when  we  went  on  an  excur- 
sion to  Mount  Saint  Michel  I  saw  you  from  my 
room  dressing  for  dinner,  and  I  thought  you  had 
a  really  fine  figure,  at  least  it  was  as  fine  as  M. 
Derwent's  and  I  enjoyed  looking  at  you,  but  I  was 
looking  at  you  as  I  would  have  inspected  a  fine  piece 
of  statuary  or  a  picture.  Had  I  looked  at  you  with 
any  other  thought  in  my  mind  I  would  have  been 
very  much  ashamed  of  myself. 

I  know  very  well  what  you  will  say:  "Well, 
where  will  this  lead  us  ?"  You  have  often  said  that. 
It  is  exactly  what  a  Frenchman  would  say  and  it 
simply  shows  you  know  nothing  about  flirting. 
Real  flirtation  leads  to  flirtation  and  nothing  more. 
If  it  led  to  anything  else  you  know  I  would  have 
long  since  forbidden  it.  You  may  think  flirting  is 
only  a  means  for  a  young  girl  to  hoodwink  proprie- 
ties. Not  at  all.  It  is  the  means  to  amuse  one's 
self  without  shocking  Mrs.  Grundy.  This  flirta- 
tion, begun  at  Dinard,  will  be  followed  by  the  win- 
ter flirtation  on  the  Riviera  and  later  on  during  the 
season  in  Paris  and  London,  and  so  on  until  one  of 


AN  INTERNATIONAL  FLIRTATION  31 

us  is  tired  of  it.  But  neither  in  London,  Paris  nor 
the  Riviera  will  I  permit  you  to  kiss  my  arms  unless 
I  should  happen  to  marry  you  at  any  one  of  these 
places. 

Now,  we  have  come  to  the  great  question  which 
must  be  in  your  mind,  although  you  have  never  said 
anything  about  it.  "Shall  we  ever  marry?"  To 
begin  with,  I'll  tell  you  this  first:  The  fact  that  I 
am  richer  than  you  is  no  obstacle.  To  have  the 
husband  I  want  I  would  willingly  throw  away  all 
the  money  my  father  made  in  Chicago,  reserving 
only  enough  to  enable  me  to  dress  well.  Marriage 

would  allow  you,  would  it  not,  all  I forbid 

you  just  now.  Therefore,  I  shall  have  no  desire  to 
marry  you  as  long  as  I  dislike  having  you  kiss  my 
lips  and  caress  my  arms.  However,  as  soon  as  I 
change  my  mind  about  these  things,  it  will  be  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  me  to  marry  you.  You  need 
not  imagine  that  you  must  always  mention  the  sub- 
ject and  be  proposing  every  day.  On  the  contrary, 
as  I  have  told  you  before,  it  would  be  most  annoy- 
ing, and  I  would  hate  both  you  and  the  idea  of 
marriage.  Hence  this  is  what  I  suggest  after  hav- 
ing carefully  thought  the  matter  over  on  my  ter- 
race. 

You  will,  I  know,  be  very  reasonable  and  flirt 
nicely  with  me.  You  will  never  ask  again  to  kiss 
my  lips.  Your  foot  will  never  again  seek  mine 


32  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

underneath  the  table  while  sitting  next  to  me  at 
dinner.  You  will  never  sulk  because  I  object  to 
your  caressing  my  arms  on  the  Casino  Terrace.  As 
a  reward  I  will  be  with  you  always.  I'll  appear 
to  be  very  much  in  love  with  you  before  other  peo- 
ple. I'll  flirt  with  no  one  else,  not  even  with  M. 
Derwent — who  looks  so  well  in  his  bathing  suit. 
At  the  same  time  I'll  do  my  best  to  fall  in  love 
with  you  and  become  your  wife — I  had  almost 
succeeded  in  persuading  myself  I  wanted  to  marry 
you  while  looking  at  you  at  Mount  Saint  Michel, 
when  my  maid's  coming  in  to  do  my  hair  inter- 
rupted my  thoughts.  Who  knows?  Next  time  I 
may  succeed  in  falling  in  love  with  you,  for  there 
must  be  in  this,  as  in  all  other  sports, — practice. 

Now,  my  dear  Robert,  regain  your  high  spirits. 
Come  and  shake  hands  with  me  to-night  at  the 
Casino.  There  is  no  one  I  like  quite  as  well  as  I 
do  you.  Do  you  not  wish  me  to  love  you  better 
than  any  one  in  the  world?  It  depends  upon  you. 
Do  through  wisdom  what  the  men  of  my  own  coun- 
try do  through  laziness;  that  is  to  say,  do  not  offer 
yourself  so  freely,  but  endeavor  to  increase  my 
desire  for  you.  Our  marriage  would  be  a  lovely 
thing,  my  dear  Robert !  Think  of  it.  It  will  help 
you  to  be  patient,  and  believe  me 
Votre  sincerement, 

ETHEL. 


THE  ADJUTANT 
(L' Adjutant) 

Madame  Vittoria  Lanciani 

To  Monsieur  Georges  Brianchot: 

THIS  is  the  eleventh  time  you  have  written  to  me 
since  I  have  been  playing  in  your  city.  Your  first 
letter  said: 

"This  evening  I  shall  be  in  the  third  row  of  the 
parquet  on  the  right.  I  shall  be  recognizable  by 
the  uniform  of  an  artillery  adjutant.  I  will  wear 
also  a  red  rose  in  my  buttonhole. 

"One  who  adores  you  in  silence." 

Indeed  I  saw  you.  I  cannot  say  I  looked  at  you 
very  carefully.  'Tis  rather  dangerous  to  let  one's 
mind  wander  while  on  the  stage,  but  I  did  notice 
an  officer,  quite  young  and  good-looking,  wearing 
a  beautiful  red  rose,  seated  where  you  indicated. 

The  next  day  as  I  came  to  the  theatre  for  a 
rehearsal  another  letter  signed  by  you  was  handed 
me,  containing  four  closely  written  pages,  in  the 
most  beautiful  handwriting  I  ever  saw.  You  were 
suffering  cruelly,  you  said,  loving  me  from  afar. 
You  must  see  me,  speak  to  me,  spend  a  few  minutes 
now  and  then  with  me — nothing  more.  Oh !  you 

33 


34  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

swore  upon  your  honor  as  a  soldier  that  was  all 
which  was  needed  to  make  you  the  happiest  adju- 
tant in  the  whole  army! 

I  am  sure  you  must  have  thought  me  very  unkind 
or  else  lacking  in  good  breeding  because  I  did  not 
answer  your  four  pages.  What  could  you  expect? 
I  have  received  so  many,  many  passionate  notes  of 
this  kind,  conveying  usually  this  thought  of  the 
writer:  They  say  this  actress  is  capable  of  doing 
something  rash — I  am  young  and  have  no  money. 
What  risks  do  I  run  ?  Let's  try. 

I  did  not  answer  you — you  wrote  every  day. 
There  must  have  been  some  true  feeling  in  those 
daily  letters,  for  I  read  them  through  instead  of 
using  them  to  test  my  curling  iron.  Gradually  they 
became  less  respectful  and  more  passionate — you 
were  beginning  to  let  me  see  you  knew  why  you 
were  not  received.  "An  artillery  adjutant  is  not 
very  much  surely — especially  when  not  very  rich." 
Then  you  would  add  you  were  worthy  of  being 
better  treated,  you  belonged  to  a  very  good  family 
— rather  wealthy — that  some  day  you  would  have 
a  very  important  position  in  the  town,  unless  I 
should  prefer  your  remaining  in  the  army.  What 
was  I  to  answer  to  that?  Tell  me!  Only  one 
answer  was  possible  containing  but  five  words :  "I 
expect  you  this  evening."  As  I  did  not  wish  to  see 
you,  I  could  not  give  you  such  an  answer. 


THE  ADJUTANT  35 

I  will  tell  you  why  directly.  From  that  time 
your  opinion  of  me  was  formed  and  you  discovered 
it  was  simply  too  nai've  to  show  too  much  sincere 
passion  to  a  woman  like  me.  In  an  envelope  you 
enclosed  five  bank  notes  of  a  thousand  francs  each. 
—  (Oh,  those  five  notes!  Cold  perspiration  stood 
on  my  face  when  I  found  out  that  they  came  from 
you) .  With  the  five  thousand  francs  were  the  fol- 
lowing words : 

"Adjutant  Brianchot  desires  to  spend  to-morrow 
night  with  Madame  Lanciani.  R.  S.  V.  P." 

For  an  answer  the  five  bank  notes  were  returned 
to  you  immediately.  As  you  are  a  gentleman  you 
realized  at  once  you  had  done  something  nasty  and 
insulting.  I  am  not  a  good  woman,  maybe,  but  I 
am  a  woman  upon  whom  you  had  no  claim.  To 
this  episode  I  owe  your  most  touching  letter,  the 
last  one,  in  which  you  beg  forgiveness.  Why  did 
you  end  it  with  a  threat?  "  'Tis  well,"  you  say,  "I 
know  now  that  you  will  never  love  me.  You  will 
even  hate  me  after  this.  I  know  what  is  left  for  me 
to  do.  I  will  wait  until  to-morrow  night.  If  by  to- 
morrow night  I  have  no  letter  saying  you  will  be 
mine,  Tuesday  I  shall  have  done  away  with  myself. 
Adieu,  madame,  forget  and  be  happy." 

Mon  Dieuf  I  know  such  threats  are  often  made 
without  any  intention  of  carrying  them  out.  How- 


36  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

ever,  .sometimes — Ah,  what  a  horrible  thought ! — 
You  are  impulsive.  I  have  read  your  letters.  I 
have  seen  you  so  many  evenings  sitting  pale  and 
dejected  in  your  seat. — Then,  the  five  thousand 
francs,  enormous  sum  for  a  soldier.  God  knows 
how  you  got  them. — Everything  put  together 
frightened  me.  To  your  threat  you  owe  this  an- 
swer. 

You  ask  me  to  be  yours.  You  do  not  want  to 
live  unless  I  consent.  Truly,  child,  I  cannot  be 
angry  with  you  because  you  find  me  to  your  liking. 
On  the  contrary,  I  am  flattered.  Do  not  think  that 
I  do  not  like  you.  I  really  do.  You  look  so  well 
that  I  am  certain  you  are  very  popular.  This  will 
calm  your  ruffled  vanity,  I  hope,  will  it  not?  Now, 
this  desire  you  feel  for  me — do  you  not  think  dur- 
ing the  twenty-five  years  of  stage  life  many  men, 
young  and  old,  handsome  and  homely,  rich  and 
poor,  have  told  me  a  similar  story — almost  every 
evening?  not  counting  afternoons  and  nights — 
and  do  not  hold  it  against  me  if  I  have  come  to 
look  upon  it — this  masculine  desire — as  a  common, 
every-day  offering,  almost  without  value,  merely 
as  the  natural  result  of  my  personality  and  reputa- 
tion. 

I  well  know  that  any  other  actress  in  my  place 
would  have  called  forth  the  same  desire  in  men. 
— Ah,  I  assure  you  it  is  not  very  tempting,  nor 


THE  ADJUTANT  37 

very  decent,  after  a  while,  especially  when  one 
is  getting  old — which  is  my  case.  (I  have  a  son 
nineteen  years  old.)  I  see  no  homage  in  it — rather 
the  opposite. 

You  reply:  "I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul.  I 
am  suffering  intensely.  I  would  rather  die " 

Nevertheless,  if  I  had  spent  a  night  with  you 
for  five  thousand  francs,  you  would  have  been  sat- 
isfied and  you  would  no  longer  have  thought  of  kill- 
ing yourself.  And  if  I  became  yours  this 
evening,  you  would  be  perfectly  willing  to  al- 
low me  to  go  to-morrow  on  my  tour  in  Belgium. 
I  know  only  too  well  the  violent  desire  for 
possession  men  feel  for  an  actress. — They  must 
have  her  at  once.  After  that  they  are  satisfied. 
What  matters  it  to  them  who  will  take  her 
afterwards  or  what  she  may  become? — No? 
This  is  not  your  case?  One  moment  of  pleasure 
will  not  satisfy  you  ?  Then,  child,  I  must  not  even 
grant  you  that  moment.  I  may  really  tell  you  the 
truth.  It  is  only  the  fear  of  being  loved  truly  and 
sincerely  by  you,  which  causes  my  refusal  to  see 
you. 

I  am  not  a  prude,  believe  me, — all  the  fol- 
lies of  reckless  youth,  all  the  sad  necessities  of 
my  profession  have  thrown  me  into  so  many  lovers' 
arms,  that  I  could  be  yours  without  feeling  after- 
wards any  less  respect  for  myself  than  I  did  before. 


38  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

What  I  am  saying  hurts  you  ?  So  much  the  better. 
The  pain  will  cure  you.  I  will  not  have  you  love 
me  !  At  your  age  you  must  only  love  a  very  young 
woman  who  will  be  wholly  yours,  or  the  woman 
you  will  marry.  If  you  should  care  for  me,  what 
do  you  suppose  your  future  would  be  ?  I  could  not 
spend  my  life  in  your  barracks. — You  would  fol- 
low me — leave  the  army — turn  actor — or  worse, 
an  actress'  lover,  accompanying  her  wherever  she 
goes.  You  rebel — That  is  what  awaits  you,  my 
dear,  and  you  cannot  deny  it. 

And  pray,  what  of  me,  if  you  become  thus 
part  of  my  luggage,  as  I  have  seen  done  by  some 
unfortunate  artists  of  my  age,  with  young  men  not 
as  good  as  you? 

No,  I  have  no  illusions.  After  a  few  days  of 
folly  you  would  realize  all  that  you  had 
sacrificed  for  an  old  woman — Yes,  old — old,  old, 
do  you  hear?  I  have  been  beautiful,  but  am  so  no 
longer.  Keep  in  your  heart,  child,  the  picture  you 
have  of  Mireille  and  of  Marguerite  as  she  ap- 
peared to  you  under  the  rouge,  the  costumes,  the 
glamour  of  music  and  footlights.  I  should  weep  to 
see  the  painful  disillusion  in  your  face  were  you  to 
see  me  as  I  really  am,  such  as  fifty  years  have  made 
me — Now,  supposing  disillusion  only  came  to  you 
after  I  had  been  yours?  What  if  I  began  to  love 
you  at  the  time  you  wanted  to  leave  me  and  forget  1 


THE  ADJUTANT  39 

No,  truly,  I  must  not  at  my  age  risk  such  an  ad- 
venture. 

I  have  no  desire  to  gain  the  sincere  love  of  a 
young  man  having  nothing  to  give  in  return.  I 
could  not  hold  it. 

Do  you  realize,  at  last,  that  all  this  is  for  your 
own  good  and  that,  after  all,  I  might  well  afford 
to  spend  a  night  with  a  handsome  adjutant?  I  did 
consider  it  an  instant.  It  would  have  been  less 
trouble  than  to  write  this  long  letter.  On  second 
thought,  I  saw  that  instead  of  the  feverish  hours 
you  dreamed  of  spending  at  my  side  I  could  give 
you  something  better  than  an  old  woman's  caresses. 

Enclosed  in  this  envelope  you  will  find  a  portrait 
of  myself  taken  about  fifteen  years  ago,  when  I  still 
was,  even  to  my  lover,  the  handsome  woman  I  ap- 
pear to  you  on  the  stage !  Keep  it  as  a  proof  that 
I  did  not  disdain  the  love  of  a  young  officer  with  a 
red  rose.  Something  written  on  the  back  of  it  will 
say  as  much. 

Come,  child,  be  brave.  You  see  I  had  to  have 
courage  to  write  to  you  as  I  did  about  myself.  If. 
you  want  to  know  whence  it  came,  I  will  tell  you. 
When  I  received  the  letter  in  which  you  spoke  of 
killing  yourself  I  thought  of  my  own  dear  boy  who 
will  soon  be  out  of  college.  He,  too,  will  have  to 
enter  the  army.  I  pictured  him,  like  you,  a  soldier 
in  a  small  town,  falling  in  love  with  a  passing  act- 


40  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

ress.  To  kill  one's  self  for  so  little ! — spoil  one's 
life!  May  God  save  him  from  such  a  fate  as  a 
reward  for  having  saved  you  to-day ! 

Foolish  boy!  let  me  kiss  you  as  your  mother 
would  1 


EXPERIENCE 

(Experience) 

Madame  Ambrus 

To  Her  Son,  Monsieur  Jean  Ambrus: 

THIS  trouble  has  crushed  you,  my  poor,  dear 
child ;  your  strength  is  gone,  and  as  you  did  when  a 
little  boy  and  were  hurt,  you  seek  the  shelter  of 
your  mother's  arms.  Dearest,  my  arms  are  opened 
to  you  and  my  humble  roof  is  yours  whenever  you 
wish  to  come  and  live  beneath  it.  No  need  of  your 
asking  leave  to  do  so.  Everything  I  possess  is 
yours. 

However,  before  burning  your  bridges  behind 
you,  I  pray  you  will  think  seriously  and  also  allow 
me  to  advise  you.  I  am  not  saying  that  the  thing 
you  want  to  do  so  impulsively  is  not  the  best  thing 
after  all.  The  matter  is  so  very  serious,  once  your 
decision  is  made,  it  will  be  irrevocable.  You  will 
not  be  angry  with  your  oFd  mother  because  she  tells 
you  not  to  be  too  rash.  You  know  she  loves  you 
and  only  wishes  what  is  best  for  you — do  you  not  ? 

I  am  not  taking  Leonie's  part.  What  she  did 
was  very  ugly — and  was  done  without  the  excuse 
a  neglecting  and  wild  husband  would  have  given 

41 


42  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

her.  You  are  uprightness  itself,  and  a  woman 
ought  to  be  satisfied  with  the  depth  of  your  charac- 
ter. Leonie  seemed  sweet  and  affectionate  and  you 
gave  the  impression  of  being  happy  in  your  home — 
and  suddenly  you  learn  of  her  meetings  with 
Letexier. 

Here,  let  me  tell  you  that  you  were  wrong  to 
allow  this  young  man  to  come  so  often  to  your 
house.  I  was  shocked  to  see  during  my  last  visit  to 
you  that  Letexier  went  with  you  to  the  theatre,  to 
the  country,  to  dine  at  the  restaurants;  in  fact, 
whatever  you  planned  included  him.  The  habits  of 
a  bachelor  forty  years  old  are  never  good,  believe 
me.  He  is  apt  to  be  blase  and  heartless,  and  in  an 
intimacy  like  yours  his  eyes  would  turn  oftener  in 
the  direction  of  your  wife  than  in  yours.  However, 
as  I  saw  nothing  improper,  I  said  nothing.  Why 
should  I  alarm  you  ?  To-day  I  regret  having  kept 
silent. 

The  thought  that  Leonie — and  that  man.  Ah ! 
my  poor  dear !  How  dreadfully  it  has  upset  me. 
I  am  sure  that  in  your  grief  you  called  for  your 
mother,  too  far,  alas !  to  comfort  you ;  and  at  once, 
impulsively,  not  wishing  to  see  your  unhappy  wife, 
not  wishing  to  be  in  the  same  house  with  her,  you 
went  to  the  hotel,  leaving  only  a  note,  saying:  "I 
know.  Good-by.  You  will  never  see  me  again." 
As  I  told  you  before,  I  am  not  saying  this  was 


EXPERIENCE  43 

wrong — you  obeyed  the  first  call  of  honor — but 
acknowledge  that  it  was  rather  imprudent.  Your 
young  wife  left  alone  without  explanation.  Do 
you  know  that  others  might  have  done  the  very 
thing  you  wanted  to  avoid?  What  would  then 
have  become  of  your  little  girl?  Thank  God! 
Leonie  acted  sensibly,  wrote  to  you,  asking  to  see 
you,  begging  for  forgiveness. 

I  know  you  are  stubborn;  you  do  not  change 
your  mind  easily.  You  refused  to  see  her;  now 
when  she  writes  to  you,  you  do  not  even  open  her 
letters.  You  want  to  leave  Paris,  forget  you  have 
a  wife  and  a  child  and  come  and  live  with  your  old 
mother.  You  finish  your  letter  by  saying:  "You 
cannot  blame  me  for  acting  as  I  do,  for  you  have 
always  been  a  good  woman  and  a  saint." 

"A  saint,"  dear,  that  is  too  strong.  I  truly  have 
tried  to  set  you  a  good  example  so  that  your 
mother  might  be  for  you  a  woman  such  as  you 
would  wish  your  wife  to  be.  It  is  a  good  thing  to 
have  a  boy  think  his  mother  is  perfection  itself. 
However,  while  living  as  good  a  life  as  she  can  a 
woman  learns  to  know  life's  difficulties;  she  sees 
much  misery  around  her,  even  in  the  homes  which 
seem  most  happy;  some  one  is  sure  to  confide  in 
her,  and,  having  a  heart — even  though  it  is  only 
the  temptations  and  faults  of  others  she  witnesses, 
should  she  herself  be  fortunate  enough  not  to  meet 


44  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

with  the  same  fate — she  learns  to  be  indulgent  and 
charitable. 

That  a  woman  should  love  some  one  else  after 
marriage  is  certainly  indiscreet.  You  would  be 
wrong,  however,  to  think — as  most  men  do — that 
because  of  that  love  she  is  necessarily  worthless. 

Often,  believe  me,  she  loves  her  husband  and 
her  child  and  would  gladly  sacrifice  everything  to 
them.  A  lover  is  the  result  of  an  awful  accident 
in  her  life,  although  she  may  see  him  again  and 
again,  like  one  possessed  of  a  chronic  disease,  in 
spite  of  her  remorse  and  ever-renewed,  and  never- 
kept  good  resolutions.  Here  let  me  tell  you,  I 
once  had  a  friend — I'll  tell  you  about  her  when  I 
see  you.  Let  us  come  back  to  Leonie. 

Come,  Jean.  Although  rightfully  indignant  at 
her,  you  confess  to  me  that  the  letters  that  moved 
you  most — the  first  ones — were  those  where  "re- 
morse and  sincerity  rung  truest." 

Dear  boy,  she  was  not  acting,  as  you  seem  to 
think.  Be  sure  that  she  now  hates  the  other  man 
and  herself  as  much  as  you  do.  Society  women 
may  look  upon  adventures  lightly  and  be  amused 
by  them,  but  we  women  wisely  brought  up  to  dis- 
like vilaines  femmes,  it  is  a  terrible  thing  for  us 
to  have  forfeited  in  our  own  eyes  the  right  to  call 
ourselves  good.  The  friend  of  whom  I  was  speak- 
ing to  you  a  little  while  ago  (you  did  not  know  her, 


EXPERIENCE  45 

or  at  least,  you  cannot  remember  her,  for  you  were 
too  small  then),  when  she  suddenly  realized  that 
she  could  no  longer  call  herself  a  "good  woman" 
nearly  went  mad.  She  wanted  to  break  away  from 
her  home;  kill  herself.  She  had  a  child.  Well, 
she  finally  made  up  her  mind  to  go  back  and  take 
up  the  burden  of  her  daily  life  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  She  was  a  good  woman,  I  assure 
you.  Do  not  be  irritated  because  I  say  she  was 
good.  She  certainly  was,  for  she  suffered  cruelly 
of  a  fault  that  no  one  knew  of  but  herself;  sus- 
pected by  no  one,  losing  none  of  the  love  her  hus- 
band and  child  bestowed  upon  her. 

How  such  a  thing  happens  in  our  peaceful  ex- 
istence, my  dear,  is  incomprehensible. 

It  happens,  I  believe,  that  our  modest  and  sim- 
ple life,  seemingly  so  full,  so  attractive,  so  amusing 
during  the  first  few  years  of  married  life,  gradually 
becomes  insufficient  to  occupy  all  of  one's 
time  and  thought;  the  household  is  run- 
ning smoothly,  the  child  has  grown  up  and 
no  longer  requires  ceaseless  attention;  one's 
husband  is  still  in  love  with  one,  assur- 
edly, but  is  no  longer — as  at  first — forever 
thinking  of  one.  Well!  something  is  lacking — the 
days  drag  on  drearily.  One  does  take  one's  self 
to  task,  remonstrate  with  and  demonstrate  to  one's 
self  that  one  has  everything  wished  for,  that  one 


46  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

is  happy.  Reason,  however,  does  not  always  hold 
against  sentiment.  There  comes  a  day  when  one 
begins  to  pity  one's  self.  What?  At  twenty-eight 
life  has  nothing  more  to  offer  one?  The  sweet- 
ness of  it  all  gone  forever?  Love,  everything,  gone 
never  to  return  ?  And  yet  one  would  enjoy  and  ap- 
preciate it  all  now  so  much  more  than  when  one 
was  younger.  Then  one  tries  to  bring  back  those 
wonderful  years — to  charm  one's  husband  again, 
to  love  him  more.  He,  poor  man,  his  mind  on 
something  else,  contented  with  his  peaceful  home, 
does  not  understand;  and  to  one's  amazement  one 
finds  after  a  while  how  irresponsive  one's  husband 
is  and,  very  much  annoyed,  one  becomes  resentful. 

Now,  as  all  men  try  to  win  young  women  in 
whose  society  they  are  thrown,  it  is  a  rare  thing 
that  a  woman — who  feels  as  I  just  pictured  you — 
does  not  find  a  man  at  hand  to  help  her  to  her 
downfall. 

Yes,  thus  it  is,  as  I  have  observed,  that  such  a 
thing  happens — just  because  the  woman  wanted  to 
bring  back  the  past  years  of  love  and  happiness. 

Women  are  honest  in  their  frailty,and  it  seems 
to  me  they  should  not  be  condemned  too  severely, 
for  they  are  most  unhappy  in  their  misery.  If 
you  could  have  seen  my  poor  friend  I  was  telling 
you  of,  if  you  could  have  seen  how  she  suffered! 
How  many  times  she  wished  that  what  happened 


EXPERIENCE  47 

to  Leonie  would  happen  to  her — in  order  to  be 
done  with  lies  and  deception. 

You  see,  Jean,  I  am  sure  your  wife's  heart  is  all 
right.  Mothers,  you  know,  cannot  be  deceived  on 
that  score,  when  their  son's  happiness  is  at  stake. 
I  have  watched  her.  She  loves  you.  I  may  tell 
you  now  that  Leonie  wrote  to  me  since  this  mis- 
fortune befell  her;  she  told  me  everything  without 
trying  to  excuse  herself.  She  begged  me  to  inter- 
cede for  her.  You  must  not  think  she  loves  Letex- 
ier.  Indeed  no !  There  came  a  day  in  the  spring 
when  the  sun  shone  too  bright;  when  life  went 
coursing  through  her  veins,  when  she  desired  to 
be  loved  and  petted  by  you,  my  son ;  yes,  by  you — 
there  came  a  day  when  her  peaceful  existence  no 
longer  satisfied  her.  Then  the  man  who  had  been 
watching  her  stole  a  desire,  an  emotion  that  was 
intended  for  you. 

The  best  way  to  avenge  yourself  is  to  win  back 
your  wife.  The  wrecking  of  your  life,  your  wife's, 
and  your  child's  would  be  too  great  a  price  to  pay 
for  this  mistake.  Do  you  believe  me?  Will  you 
love  me  less  because  I  say  to  you:  "Leonie  has 
made  a  mistake,  but  I  assure  you  she  is  a  good 
woman?" 

Surely  nothing  gives  me  more  pleasure  than  to 
hear  you  say,  "Mother,  you  are  a  saint."  The 
friend  whose  suffering  I  spoke  of  did  not  unde- 


48  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

ceive  her  husband  and  child,  and  her  remorse  was 
the  greater  because  of  that. 

However,  if  I  thought  that  it  would  influence 
you,  I  would  say  to  you,  I,  your  mother,  do  not 
know  whether  or  not  I  have  the  right  to  condemn 
Leonie,  for  in  her  place  I  do  not  know  whether  I 
should  have  had  the  strength  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion that  came  to  her;  and  had  I  done  so,  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  would  not  have  suddenly  become  un- 
worthy of  your  pity,  your  affection  and  your  re- 
spect. 

Now,  child,  be  generous,  forgive  your  wife  and 
take  her  back.  She  will  never  play  with  fire  again. 
It  will  never  happen  again,  I  give  you  my  word. 
Leonie  will  be  to  you — if  you  consent  to  forget — 
a  wife  worthy  of  your  love  and  respect.  Yes,  re- 
spect; the  very  same  respect  you  have  for  your 
mother.  Do  you  believe  me? 

Come!  Leonie  and  your  daughter  are  here  at 
my  house.  The  child  calls  for  you  and  weeps  be- 
cause you  do  not  come.  We  told  her  you  would 
be  here  to-morrow.  Will  you  have  us  tell  the  child 
an  untruth? 


RECONCILIATION 

(Conciliation) 

Madame  Ardeville 

To  Madame  Dumoiistier: 

AH,  MY  dear,  many  things  have  happened  to 
me;  many  trials  and  tribulations  have  befallen  me 
in  the  last  short  month.  I  am  all  upset,  and  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  am  dreaming  or  awake.  This 
morning,  opening  my  eyes,  my  brain  still  half 
asleep,  I  thought:  "Well,  I  am  no  longer  married. 
I  am  alone — all  alone,"  and  languidly  stretching 
myself,  I  came  in  contact  with  some  part  of  my 
husband's  anatomy.  My  husband's,  do  you  hear? 

Have  we  made  up?  Yes,  and  I  was  far  from 
expecting  we  should.  I  enjoyed  six  weeks  of  free- 
dom, and  now  I  am  in  bondage  again — a  married 
woman  once  more. 

After  all,  I  am  not  a  bit  sorry,  for  I  love  Paul, 
but  it  was  fine  to  have  no  more  cares,  no  more 
duties,  and  I  really  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the 
situation.  I  am  a  very  proper  married  woman, 
and  I  would  not  let  any  one  so  much  as  kiss  my 
cheek.  If  one  is  divorced  or  a  widow,  why  that  is 
a  different  thing,  for  one  is  free.  My  freedom  has 

49 


50  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

been  short,  but  I  enjoyed  it  immensely.  I  was  ac- 
quiring valuable  knowledge  from  the  bar,  the 
judges  and  others.  Suddenly  all  means  of  enlight- 
enment was  taken  from  me.  Just  imagine  a  blind 
man  made  to  see  and  suddenly  losing  his  sight 
again.  Well  this  is  my  case.  I  am  now  blind.  Let 
me  at  least  enjoy  myself  by  telling  you  what  I  saw* 
when  I  was  not  blind. 

Darling  Alice,  you  know  I  am  an  honest  woman ; 
rather  thoughtless  at  times,  but  thoroughly  honest 
and  careful  of  my  husband's  honor.  Anyway,  I 
loved  Paul  and  he  loved  me.  He  showed  his  love 
in  a  thousand  ways.  We  were  very  happy,  were 
we  not? 

Trouble  came  through  my  sister — a  sister  fifteen 
years  older  than  one,  and  living  with  one  and  one's 
husband  is  equal  to  two  mothers-in-law.  Poor  An- 
nette is  not  really  wicked.  But  to  see  us  forever 
kissing  each  other  when  all  she  had  to  kiss  were 
pictures  of  the  Madonna,  or  on  cold  winter  nights 
to  have  to  take  to  bed  an  irresponsive  hot-water 
bottle  while  her  younger  sister  has  a  live  one  with 
lovely  mustaches.  Poor  Annette !  Do  you  blame 
her  for  being  cross?  She  actually  aged  five  years 
during  our  first  year  of  married  life.  The  second 
year  Paul  said  to  me:  "Your  sister  is  getting  un- 
bearable; we  must  find  her  a  husband." 

The  idea  seemed  most  amusing  and  incredible, 


RECONCILIATION  51 

but  on  second  thought  I  became  convinced  that  this 
was  the  only  thing  to  do. 

"I  know  some  one,"  said  Paul  resolutely.  "You 
wait.  Annette  is  not  handsome,  but  she  has  a 
pretty  attractive  dowry.  Leave  it  to  me." 

He  announced  his  intentions  to  my  sister.  At 
first  she  took  it  for  a  joke,  but  when  she  realized 
he  was  in  earnest  she  showed  such  sincere  joy  that 
Paul  was  actually  touched. 

The  next  day  at  lunch  he  brought  in  the  suitor. 
I  expected  to  see  some  ridiculously  bearded  man. 
Not  at  all !  He  was  a  man  about  thirty,  alert, 
fairly  well  groomed,  and  one  of  the  clerks  in  the 
bank  of  which  Paul  is  president. 

"He  is  ambitious,  intelligent,  and  frets  at  being 
poor;  he'll  take  her,"  said  Paul  to  me. 

For  one  week,  two  weeks,  he  paid  his  daily  visit 
to  Annette.  Annette  was  just  flourishing.  The 
engagement  was  about  to  be  announced,  when  one 
fine  morning  a  letter  came  for  my  husband.  The 
suitor  would  take  no  longer;  everything  was  up; 
disproportion  of  fortune — difference  in  age,  which 
might  lead  to  suppose  that — would  always  remem- 
ber how  kind,  etc.  The  game  was  up ;  the  man  was 
beating  a  retreat. 

"He  is  an  idiot,"  said  Paul.  "I'm  going  to  dis- 
miss him." 

Dismiss  him  he  did.     But  would  you  believe  it, 


52  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

my  sister  held  Paul  responsible  for  her  disappoint- 
ment. She  accused  him  of  having  made  her  a  sub- 
ject of  ridicule  and  began  to  hate  him  in  earnest. 
She  had  often  tried  to  throw  suspicion  on  his  fidel- 
ity to  me.  Do  you  know  what  she  did?  She 
employed  the  help  of  an  agency.  It  was  discovered 
that  Paul  spent  an  hour  daily  on  a  certain  ground 
floor  of  the  Rue  Bassano.  Annette  worked  on  me 
so  that  I  consented  to  lay  a  trap  for  my  husband. 
He  was  caught.  I  became  the  possessor  of  two 
compromising  letters.  Left  to  myself  I  would 
have  forgiven  him.  My  sister  would  not  allow  it. 
She  brought  about  a  rupture  between  us,  and  I 
brought  suit  for  a  divorce. 

To  ask  for  a  divorce  did  not  seem  any  harder  to 
me  than  to  ask  for  a  box  at  the  Opera.  Ah !  dear 
one,  never  divorce.  You  can't  imagine  all  that  has 
been  invented  to  disgust  the  parties.  You  must 
have  an  attorney,  then  a  lawyer,  then  judges,  a 
president;  a  lot  of  things  which  demand  many  vis- 
its and  extensive  correspondence.  Things  were 
made  harder  for  me  because  my  husband  filed  a 
suit  against  me.  Annette,  fearing  we  might  make 
up,  had  made  me  leave  home. 

We  had  taken  refuge  in  a  Retreat  House,  for 
ladies  only,  and  kept  by  Sisters.  It  was  not  very 
cheerful;  the  very  walls  emitted  boredom,  evil- 
mindedness,  pose;  but  it  was,  to  all  appearances, 


RECONCILIATION  53 

perfectly  proper.  They  made  a  specialty  of  di- 
vorce among  society  people.  At  the  time  I  stayed 
there  we  were  six  in  number — four  young  women 
and  two  old  ones.  You  should  have  heard  us  talk- 
ing about  men.  And  Annette !  Should  a  young  girl 
happen  to  spend  a  few  days  in  the  place  she  would 
vow  herself  to  spinsterhood  forever  and  ever.  By 
the  by,  the  two  old  women  had  their  second  hus- 
bands in  view. 

The  Superior  gave  us  the  names  of  the  attorney 
and  lawyer;  both  seemed  attached  to  the  house  like 
secular  preachers.  They  were  the  best  that  could 
be  had.  The  attorney  was  M.  Cartelier,  a  blond 
giant,  with  long  drooping  mustaches ;  you  know  the 
type  of  man  I  go  wild  over.  The  lawyer — guess — 
Darthenay,  my  Darthenay — our  Darthenay,  if  you 
prefer,  for  he  made  love  to  you  as  well  as  to  me 
at  Etretat.  Picture  his  astonishment.  "You, 
Blanche!"  (He  had  fallen  into  the  bad  habit 
of  calling  me  Blanche  after  you  went  away. 
He  took  my  hands,  kissed  them.  I  was 
rather  moved  myself,  but  managed  to  be  cold 
and  dignified.  "Sir,  I  did  not  come  here  to  flirt — 
1  came  to  talk  business  with  you.  Mother  Eu- 
charis  sent  me." 

Darthenay  jumped. 

"Mother  Eucharis!  Then  you  are  suing  for  a 
divorce?" 


54  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

"Yes." 

Never  before  did  so  small  a  word  upset  any  one 
so  completely,  I  am  sure.  Before  I  had  time  to 
move,  my  Darthenay  (our  Darthenay,  for  I  will 
not  be  selfish)  had  seized  my  hands  and  was  draw- 
ing me  to  him. 

"Divorcing!  Oh,  Blanche,  dear,  how  lovely! 
You  know  I  love  you !"  He  tried  to  convince  me; 
I  told  him  I  was  still  married.  He  was  so  gently 
sympathetic,  so  tender,  that  I  made  up  my  mind 
on  the  spot  that  he  must  be  my  husband,  so  I  said 
to  him: 

"Henri,  you  must  marry  me !" 

He  did  not  seem  surprised. 

"Certainly,"  he  replied.  "You  are  the  ideal 
woman  for  a  man  tender  and  intelligent.  (What 
do  you  think  of  his  conceit?)  Pretty,  elegant, 
witty,  somewhat  in  love." 

I  dropped  my  eyes. 

"Then,  as  soon  as  I  have  my  divorce?"  I  said. 

"Surely!    Only " 

"Oh!  there  is  an  only!" 

"I  am  married." 

This  was  a  blow  I  was  far  from  expecting.  I 
should  have  thought  of  anything  but  that ! 

"Sir,  you  have  behaved  shamefully.  You  should 
not  toy  with  a  woman's  honor.  And  you  told  me 
you  adored  me  at  Etretat,  and  no  sooner  am  I  out 


RECONCILIATION  5$ 

of  sight  than  you  get  married.  You  did  not  love 
me." 

I  felt  very  sorry.  Darthenay  gave  me  a  graphic 
picture  of  his  despair  at  my  refusal.  "I  knew  you 
were  honesty  itself — I  had  no  chance — I  tried  to 
forget." 

"Well,"  I  said  to  him,  "get  a  divorce  and  we 
will  marry." 

"That  is  a  good  idea,"  he  replied.  'Til  think 
about  it.  But  first,  let's  talk  about  yours.  A  month 
will  be  all  that  is  necessary.  Meanwhile,  when 
shall  I  see  you  again?" 

I  made  out  I  did  not  understand  him. 

"You  may  talk  to  my  attorney." 

"What  do  I  care  for  your  attorney.  It's  you  I 
want  to  see.  Say  when." 

I  finally  promised  to  see  him  again. 

"By  the  way,  who  is  your  attorney?" 

"M. — wait  a  minute.  Mother  Eucharis  gave 
me  a  slip  of  paper.  M.  Cartelier." 

He  did  not  seem  a  bit  pleased. 

"Cartelier!  Let  me  advise  you.  Do  not  go  to 
see  Cartelier." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  is  not  proper  for  a  pretty  woman  like  you 
to  go  to  a  lawyer  who  has  such  a  reputation." 

"What  kind  is  it?" 

"He  is  said  to  compromise  his  clients." 


56  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

"Well!   What  about  you?" 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  doing  so.  I  am  too 
tender,  while  he — he  is  a  brute !" 

He  took  me  in  his  arms  to  prove  to  me  how  ten- 
der he  was,  and  as  I  was  going  down  the  steps  he 
called  after  me : 

"Don't  go.    He  is  a  brute." 

Alice,  what  would  you  have  done  in  like  circum- 
stances ?  You  would  have  gone  straight  to  the  at- 
torney to  prove  to  yourself  that  you  were  not 
afraid  of  brutes.  Well,  I  went  back  to  the  con- 
vent, postponing  the  decision  until  to-morrow,  and 
to  have  another  talk  with  Mother  Eucharis.  Upon 
the  repeated  assertion  of  the  latter  that  he  was  the 
smartest  attorney  in  town,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
ignore  the  advice  of  Darthenay. 

In  the  presence  of  the  man  I  understood  his  rep- 
utation of  being  a  "ladies'  man."  A  beautiful 
Celtic  type,  eyes  like  two  blue  gems,  impossible  to 
fathom.  Really,  it  is  too  bad  such  a  man  should 
be  an  attorney — he  ought  to  be  an  artist  or  an 
actor.  I  told  him  so,  but  not  at  my  first  call — later. 
Let  me  tell  you  about  that. 

Nothing  that  I  feared  happened  during  my  visit. 
He  was  perfectly  proper — even  indifferent.  He  a 
brute?  No,  indeed!  He  was  not  even  amiable, 
but  very  smart.  In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  he  had 
the  whole  case  and  was  summing  it  up  in  tele- 


RECONCILIATION  57 

graphic  style:  Husband  fond  of  women — nice  in 
his  home — embittered  sister;  she  caused  the  trou- 
ble; you  were  not  very  anxious  at  first;  now  your 
mind  is  made  up  to  go  to  the  end.  Is  it  not  so  ? 

That  was  all,  and  it  was  time  to  go. 

Why  should  I  not  tell  you?  I  was  disappointed. 
It  is  not  very  pleasant  to  have  made  an  extra  pro- 
vision of  courage  and  then  to  find  it  had  not  been 
at  all  necessary.  Had  Darthenay  lied  to  me?  I 
wanted  to  make  an  impression  upon  my  attorney. 
I  had  failed.  Too  bad  to  like  people  'who  care 
nothing  for  you.  This  thought  took  away  all  the 
pleasure  I  might  have  felt  on  meeting  Darthenay. 
I  certainly  behaved  abominably  and  treated  the 
poor  man  most  unkindly. 

Back  to  the  convent  I  discreetly  brought  the  con- 
versation of  my  co-sufferers  to  the  subject  of  Car- 
telier.  Every  one  praised  his  ability  as  a  profes- 
sional man — "smart,  very  smart."  When  I  tried 
to  make  them  talk  about  the  man  himself,  I  noticed 
blushes,  reticences.  Ah!  I  thought,  has  the  man 
been  rude  to  everybody  but  me?  I  took  aside  a 
little  brunette  who  was  divorcing  on  ridiculous 
grounds.  I  complained  of  Cartelier's  manner  to- 
ward me.  The  little  simpleton  blushingly  told  me 
he  had  been  exceedingly  brutal  with  her. 

Really  I  must  find  out  for  myself.  With  some 
excuse  or  other,  I  went  to  see  the  attorney  again. 


58  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

I  must  find  out,  solve  the  riddle.  You  can  imagine 
how  controlled  I  was  to  be  even  gracious  to  the 
blond  giant,  whom  I  was  beginning  to  dislike  cor- 
dially. I  was  gracious,  even  more  than  gracious. 
Looking  over  his  shoulder  to  examine  one  of  the 
documents  I  brushed  his  moustache  ever  so  slightly. 
It  was  hardly  noticeable,  but  it  sufficed  to  gal- 
vanize him  into  action.  Oh,  my  dear !  the  terrible 
adventure ! 

It  is  useless  to  tell  you  that  I  never  went  back, 
except  when  absolutely  necessary,  and  that  I  was 
very  angry  at  myself. 

I  had  one  more  visit  to  make  to  see  the  Presi- 
dent, who  was  to  try  to  reconcile  us.  Made  wiser 
by  my  first  two  experiences,  I  sent  for  the  little 
brunette,  whose  case  was  about  a  week  ahead  of 
mine. 

"Oh !"  she  said,  "that  one  is  perfectly  harmless. 
No  longer  young,  lavish  in  his  compliments,  very 
gallant  after  the  manner  of  old  gentlemen.  Do 
not  be  afraid  and  be  kind  to  him,  for  he  might 
keep  you  from  getting  your  divorce." 

Keep  me  from  getting  my  divorce !  Two  weeks 
before  I  would  not  have  cared,  except  for  Annette's 
sake,  but  now  that  I  had  tasted  freedom  I  could 
not  bear  to  be  disappointed. 

I  was  therefore  amiable  to  the  President,  M.  de 
la  Coudraie.  He  was  a  small  man,  well  fed,  not  too 


RECONCILIATION  59 

fat — a  florid  face  framed  by  brown  side  whiskers. 
The  one  occupation  of  this  man  during  our  talk 
was  to  indulge  in  more  or  less  risque  jokes,  which 
were  not  a  bit  witty,  upon  the  relations  between 
man  and  wife.  Every  now  and  then  to  bring  him 
back  to  the  point  I  would  say : 

"Every  evening,  sir,  my  husband  would  go  and 
spend  an  hour  with  Henriette  de  Conti." 

He  would  interrupt : 

"Every  evening?  What  a  wonderful  man  this 
Paul  must  be!  And  he  was  nice  to  you? — affec- 
tionate? Wonderful!  wonderful!" 

He  would  walk  about,  spin  on  his  heels,  kiss  my 
hand,  take  me  by  the  chin,  smile  into  my  eyes  with 
a  look  at  once  bold  and  paternal.  I  was  exceed- 
ingly bored,  but  remembering  the  threat  of  the 
little  brunette,  I  did  not  dare  send  him  about  his 
business.  Finally,  after  an  hour  of  rambling  talk, 
he  said  to  me: 

"Come  here,  child." 

"I  went.  He  took  my  hands  and  began  a  very 
nice  little  sermon : 

"My  dear  child,  to  divorce  is  a  very  serious 
thing.  A  pretty  woman  like  you  alone  in  the  world, 
without  any  protector.  (His  fingers  were  around 
my  wrists).  For  such  a  little  thing.  You  cannot 
make  me  believe  that  you  no  longer  love  your  hus- 
band— because  (his  lips  were  on  my  wrists)  he 


60  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

spent  a  few  hours  in  the  Rue  Bassano?  Think  of 
how  many  days  of  happiness  he  gave  you.  Re- 
member (his  left  arm  stole  around  my  waist)  how 
happy  you  were  on  your  wedding  trip." 

Was  it  not  stupid?  I  was  very  much  moved  by 
what  the  President  was  recalling  to  my  mind.  I 
was  thinking  of  Paul,  poor  Paul ! — he  certainly 
was  gay,  amusing,  generous  and  much  in  love.  I 
had  missed  him  so  much  during  the  past  six  weeks. 
The  thought  of  coming  back  to  him  was  shaping 
itself  slowly  in  my  mind,  and  through  the  caressing 
voice  of  the  President  I  was  already  picturing  a 
new  honeymoon,  when 

"Sir!" 

I  was  on  my  feet  in  a  minute,  like  one  suddenly 
awakened,  and  perfectly  furious.  M.  de  la  Cou- 
draie  caught  on  the  fly  the  hand  that  would  have 
struck  him  in  the  face  and  kissed  it. 

"Fortunately  for  you,  my  beauty,"  he  said  with 
a  smile,  "I  have  not  my  judicial  gown  on,  otherwise 
this  would  have  cost  you  five  years  of  prison." 

Thereupon  we  parted,  not  too  angry  with  each 
other. 

This  good  man  had  spoken  to  me  of  Paul;  had 
said  what  I  was  dying  to  acknowledge  to  myself 
every  day  and  did  not  dare  to. 

Annette  was  watching  for  my  return.  She  was 
perfectly  delighted  with  her  new  life,  perfectly  de- 


RECONCILIATION  61 

lighted  to  live  among  women  who  by  profession 
always  have  something  evil  to  say  about  men. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  "are  things  going  on  well?" 

I  sent  her  forcibly  about  her  business. 

"Let  me  alone;  you  are  always  trying  to  excite 
me  against  Paul.  You  alone  are  the  cause  of  all 
this  trouble.  I  beg  you  will  never  again  speak  to 
me  about  my  husband  in  your  evil  way." 

"Well,"  she  replied,  with  that  cutting  voice  I 
envy  her  and  which  alone  belongs  to  soured  old 
maids,  "very  well,  go  to  him.  You  will  find  him 
in  the  Rue  Bassano.  You  three  can  have  a  cup  of 
tea  together." 

Yes,  Paul  might  be  with  that  woman.  She  is 
pretty,  too — I  saw  her  portrait — and  now  that 
Paul  is  free  he  probably  does  not  leave  her. 

"You  are  right,"  I  said  to  Annette.  "I  will  have 
my  divorce."  And  I  went  to  my  room  to  weep. 

Three  days  later  I  was  called  to  meet  my  husband 
and  see  if  we  could  not  be  reconciled.  I  went  with 
Annette.  Would  you  believe  it,  Alice,  dear,  my 
heart  was  beating  hard;  not  because  I  feared  the 
divorce  would  not  be  granted  me,  but  at  the  thought 
of  seeing  my  husband  again,  of  being  face  to  face 
with  him  once  more.  We  were  ushered  into  a 
room  full  of  people  seated  in  corners,  looking  sad 
and  bored.  I  searched  for  Paul.  He  was  not 
there.  Suddenly  my  sister's  elbow  dug  into  me. 


62  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

"There  he  is,  the  wretch.     Do  look  dignified." 

I  was  dignified  and  looked  at  the  "wretch."  He 
was  thinner,  still  elegant,  fascinating,  alert,  violets 
in  his  buttonhole,  his  hat  well  brushed,  his  necktie 
of  the  latest  pattern.  I  compared  him  to  Darth- 
enay,  to  the  blond  giant,  and  decided  in  his  favor. 

Meanwhile  Annette  was  lecturing  me: 

"Try  to  be  firm;  don't  be  a  weakling!  Remem- 
ber Henriette  de  Conti !  Well,  what  are  you  look- 
ing at?" 

I  was  looking  at  Paul.  He  was  actually  winking 
at  me.  His  pantomime  was  more  that  of  a  lover 
than  that  of  a  husband.  He  still  loved  me — so  his 
eyes  were  saying,  and  I  telegraphed  back: 

"Husband  mine,  I  should  like  to  give  you  a  kiss, 
but  Annette  won't  let  me."  At  that  moment  An- 
nette grabbed  me  by  the  arm  and  forced  me  to  turn 
my  back  upon  Paul.  Just  then  an  usher  called  out : 

"Ardeville  against  Ardeville !" 

"Courage!"  called  my  sister,  "and  remember 
Henriette  de  Conti." 

I  heard  her  repeat  that  name  until  the  door  shut 
behind  us. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  usher,  "the  President  and 
his  clerk  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

We  were  left  alone.  Paul  sat  down  and  I  went 
to  the  window.  I  was  trying  hard  to  be  angry 
with  him.  I  wanted  to  knock  down  the  well- 


RECONCILIATION  63 

dressed,  handsome  man  a  few  steps  back  of  me. 
Suddenly  I  heard  him  get  up.  His  boots  creaked 
upon  the  floor;  the  odor  of  violets  came  near. 
How  very  foolish  of  me.  I  did  not  dare  to  turn 
round;  I  did  not  dare  move.  I  felt  as  though  I 
should  faint,  as  though  I  should  fall — and  effec- 
tively I  did  fall — into  Paul's  arms.  Ah!  I  could 
not  help  it!  Say  what  you  will,  you  would  have 
done  the  same  thing  had  you  been  in  my  place. 

"Well,  everything  is  all  right,"  said  a  voice  I 
recognized  as  belonging  to  President  de  la  Cou- 
draie,  as  he  found  us  seated  on  the  sofa,  one  o?  my 
hands  in  that  of  Paul's. 

Bless  his  kind  soul !  He  sent  us  home  by  another 
way — and  so  we  escaped  Annette. 


CONFESSION  OF  FAITH 
(Les  Pratiques) 

Madame  de  Raimbourg 

To  Madame  Lespanie: 

MY  DEAR  JULIE: 

Two  words  only — but  very  important  ones. 

First.  Where  can  I  find  the  little  cakes,  shaped 
like  tiles,  which  we  ate  at  your  house  Wednesday 

last?  Both  my  husband  and  G are  asking  for 

them. 

Second.  Lent  is  coming — a  time  for  grand  wash- 
ing of  consciences.  I  do  not  know  to  whom  I  shall 
go  for  confession.  My  old  confessor — Abbe  La- 
pioche — who  was  so  kind,  so  deaf,  died  last 
January. 

You — who  are  a  clever  and  well-informed  wo- 
man— must  know  the  best  man  to  take  his  place. 
He  must  be  an  intelligent  priest,  up-to-date — an 
homme  du  monde — who  will  not  ask  absurd  ques- 
tions. In  a  word,  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to 
hear  confessions  of  such  women  as  we  are.  Do  not 
send  me  a  dozen  names,  for  I  should  not 
know  how  to  select  one.  Just  tell  me  to  whom 
you  go.  I'll  go  to  your  confessor.  We  must 

64 


CONFESSION  OF  FAITH  65 

be  two  of  a  kind,  or  at  least  have  one  common 
sin. 

Good-by,  dear.     I  thank  you  beforehand. 

ROBERTE. 

P.  S. — Tell  me  the  exact  name  of  the  cakes. 

Madame  Lespanie: 

Here  is,  my  dear  Roberte,  the  address  you  re- 
quested of  me:  Riboullet  340  Faubourg  Saint 
Honore  (this  is  where  you  can  find  the  cakes). 
They  are  called  "artichoke  leaves."  Keep  it  a 
secret.  It  is  so  hard  to  have  something  new  for 
guests.  My  "artichoke  leaves"  have  had  much 

success.     Would  you  believe  that  H found 

them  out  ?    He  is  a  wonder. 

However,  H cannot  help  me  to  find  a  con- 
fessor as  easily  as  he  helped  me  find  the  cakes. 
When  Abbe  Leplatre  was  suddenly  transferred  to 
Langres,  I  found  myself  in  the  same  trouble  you 
are  in  just  now.  He  would  have  suited  you  to  per- 
fection— a  perfect  saint — very  strict  with  himself, 
and  very  indulgent  to  his  worldly  parishioners. 

Quite  a  number  of  us  "mondaines"  were  in  the 
habit  of  going  to  him.  He  was  the  confessor  of 
Madame  de  Formeuil,  my  dear,  and  of  her  sister- 
in-law,  Laura.  You  may  know  he  was  well  sea- 
soned ! — nothing  astonished  him !  Now,  he  might 
have  been  too  holy  to  see  anything  wrong  in  us.  I 


66  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

was  inclined  to  think  so  when  he  would  reply  to  my 
most  perilous  confidences,  "Very  well,  dear  child," 
in  a  most  fatherly  way.  Well,  it  is  not  within  our 
province  to  give  a  confessor  a  course  of  lectures. 
My  conscience  and  I  were  at  peace ! 

After  hearing  of  the  good  Abbe's  transfer  to 
Langres,  I  called  to  congratulate  him  and  at  the 
same  time  asked  him  who  would  succeed  him,  who 
would  henceforth  undertake  the  cleansing  of  the 
naughty  consciences  of  Madame  Formeuil,  Laura, 
and  myself. 

"I  recommend  all  these  ladies  to  the  Abbe 
Prudhon,  who  is  to  take  my  place  at  Saint  Sulpice," 
he  said. 

"Is  he  like  you?"  I  asked. 

"Mon  Dieuf  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  like," 
replied  the  good  Abbe,  smiling,  "but  Abbe  Prudhon 
is  very  venerable  and  learned.  Moreover,  he  be- 
longs to  an  excellent  family.  He  lived  in  the  world 
for  a  long  time  before  he  was  touched  by  grace. 
He  will  be  perfectly  at  home  amongst  you." 

On  the  strength  of  this  we  all  brought  our  sins, 
great  and  small,  to  Abbe  Prudhon.  He  understood 
everything!  To  be  sure  it  was  very  noticeable  to 
us  that  he  had  been  touched  by  grace,  as  Abbe  Le- 
platre  said,  after  fifteen  years  of  fast  living.  I 
think  grace  must  have  come  to  the  Abbe  in  the 
shape  of  a  woman's  deception  and  he  is  holding 


CONFESSION  OF  FAITH  67 

the  sex  responsible  for  it!  Ah,  my  dear  Roberte, 
one  came  out  of  his  confessional  pretty  well  broken 
up  in  body  and  soul ! 

The  beloved  lambs  of  Abbe  Leplatre  could  not 
endure  such  treatment  more  than  once.  They  took 
to  their  heels,  and  are  still  running.  I,  for  my 
part,  respected  him  and  would  have  returned  to 

him  if  H had  not  vetoed  my  going.     Abbe 

Prudhon  had  made  me  promise  to  have  nothing 

more  to  do  with  H ,  I  think  G would  not 

tolerate  your  going  to  Abbe  Prudhon  any  more 

than  H did  my  going.     Since  then  I  have 

lived  without  going  to  church — till  Easter. 

At  Easter  my  conscience  awakened.  I  would 
not  let  this  great  day  pass  without  being  absolved. 
The  difficulty,  however,  was  in  finding  a  confessor. 
I  thought  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  go  to  a 
quarter  of  Paris  unknown  to  me,  step  into  tEe  first 
church  I  came  across,  make  my  confession  without 
knowing  the  priest,  and  without  his  knowing  me. 

The  following  Saturday  I  dressed  plainly,  took 
a  cab,  and,  at  my  request,  the  driver  took  me  to  the 
Esplanade  des  Invalides.  I  left  it  to  Providence  to 
guide  my  steps. 

A  half  hour's  walk  through  most  interesting 
streets  brought  me  to  a  plain  white  church  with- 
out a  steeple.  I  entered,  hoping  the  good  Lord 
was  with  me. 


68  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Confession  was  going  on  as  I  had  foreseen. 
Three  or  four  old  women  in  black,  two  young  girls 
and  a  little  boy  were  kneeling,  waiting  before  the 
one  confessional.  I  lingered  till  my  turn  came.  It 
was  long  in  coming  and  I  had  plenty  of  time  to 
examine  my  conscience.  Were  the  novelty  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  place  influencing  me? — I  found  my- 
self exceedingly  penitent ! 

There  were  so  many  poor  people  coming  and  go- 
ing. Their  many  attendant  odors,  mixed  with  the 
stale  smell  of  incense  in  the  chapel,  made  my 
wealth,  comfort  and  security  seem  almost  my  great- 
est sin.  The  one  thing  I  had  to  confess  appeared 
so  much  worse  here  in  this  little  church  than  if  I 
had  been  poor  and  one  of  the  people,  such"  as  my 
kneeling  neighbors. 

Under  these  impressions  I  began  my  confession. 

Ah,  my  dear!  Take  my  advice.  If  you  value 
your  peace  of  mind,  never  go  to  a  priest  in  a  poor 
church.  I  should  suppose  the  poor  do  not  love 
each  other  in  the  same  way  we  worldly  folks  do 
— or  perhaps  those  whose  moral  code  is  such  as 
ours  do  not  go  to  confession.  Really  the  poor 
priest  did  not  understand  me  at  all.  I  must  explain 
to  him — give  details — tell  how  many  times.  It 
was  most  uncomfortable  I  assure  you.  What  a 
scolding  I  received !  An  awful  sermon !  He  com- 
pared me  successively  to  all  the  ill-famed  women 


CONFESSION  OF  FAITH  69 

of  the  Old  and  New  Testament :  Raab,  Bathsheba, 
the  Samaritan  woman,  etc.  The  worst  of  it  all  was 
that  in  my  own  mind  I  agreed  with  him,  and  I  said 
to  myself:  "Evidently  this  priest  is  right — I  am 
beyond  redemption — an  abominable  sinner." 

He  ended  his  sermon  by  requesting  a  solemn 

promise  not  to  see  H any  more.  Nothing  short 

of  that.  And  he  asked  it  as  he  might  have  asked 
me  to  recite  the  Lord's  Prayer  or  give  a  small 
sum  to  the  church.  I  protested  I  could  not  make 
such  a  promise.  I  told  him  things  were  not  done 
in  that  way  in  society.  He  replied  in  good  faith: 
"Our  Lord  does  not  go  into  society.  If  you  really 
care  to  find  Him,  you  must  give  up  what  you  call 
society." 

He  would  not  give  in  to  my  way  of  thinking, 
and  being  too  loyal  to  make  a  promise  I  never 
could  keep,  I  went  home  sorry,  but  unabsohed. 

This  adventure,  however,  had  filled  me  with  hu- 
mility. 

Once  again  in  my  own  neighborhood,  among 
my  bibelots,  in  my  own  house,  my  servants  around 
me,  the  contrition  I  had  felt  in  the  poor  little  church 
diminished.  However,  it  did  not  disappear  alto- 
gether. I  felt  like  an  awful  sinner,  and  thought 
over  the  matter  of  my  conversion  as  the  Abbe  had 
crudely  put  it  during  the  following  evening  and 
night.  Next  morning  I  was  almost  convinced, 


70  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

when,  unfortunately,  I  received  while  still  in  bed 

a  lovely  note  from  H asking  a  rendezvous 

for  the  afternoon.  My  good  resolutions  toolc 
flight — forever. 

What  did  I  do  next? 

Well!  I  gave  up  trying  to  adorn  sin  with  a 
semblance  of  religion.  I  no  longer  go  to  confes- 
sion— but  do  not  tell  this  to  Laura  or  her  sister-in- 
law — for  it  would  do  me  harm.  I  go  to  church 
occasionally — to  church  bearing  the  names  of 
saints  whose  lives  were  not  perfection — like  Saint 
Augustin  or  Saint  Magdala.  I  go  there  to  pray 
for  my  conversion  with  alas!  a  secret  desire  that 
my  prayer  will  not  be  answered  very  soon,  for 
youth  fades  quickly,  and  I  passionately  love  my 
sin.  When  Lent  comes  I  no  longer  go  to  confes- 
sion, seeking  absolution  in  far-away  churches,  but 
I  have  a  private  talk  with  my  own  God,  telling 
Him  why  I  refrain. 

My  prayer  to  Him  runs  somewhat  like  this : 

"Oh !  Lord,  before  Thee  stands  a  miserable 
Parisian  woman,  belonging  to  the  world — ou  Von 
s'amuse — that  is  to  say,  an  unimportant  soul  en- 
closed in  a  body  Thou  hast  deigned  to  fashion  most 
attractively.  Allow  me  to  remind  Thee  that  my 
parents,  my  husband,  and  all  those  who  have  had 
charge  of  me  have  taken  no  care  of  my  soul.  They 
did  everything  for  its  perishable  envelope;  they 


CONFESSION  OF  FAITH  71 

cared  for  it;  adorned  it;  and  paid  it  all  sorts  of 
homage.  Alas!  Lord,  why  didst  Thou  bring  me 
up  so  badly?  Why  didst  Thou  throw  me  into 
such  a  sad  world  ?  Why  was  I  not  born  of  parents 
of  kind  and  honest  disposition,  but  bourgeois  of 
Langres  for  instance?  My  only  ideal  would  then 
be  to  embroider  slippers  for  Abbe  Leplatre. 

"Wherever  I  look,  I  see  nothing  but  bad  exam- 
ples. All  that  Thou  forbiddest  is  joyfully  done  by 
all  the  people  in  our  set,  and  even  by  members  of 
my  own  family.  How  canst  Thou  expect  poor 
weak  me  to  be  a  saint?  To  make  matters  worse, 

Thou  hast  put  H in  my  path — a  man  no 

woman  has  been  able  to  resist  and  who  loves  me — 
at  least  he  tells  me  he  does.  How  could  poor  weak 
me  resist  him  ?  Have  pity  on  me — do  not  condemn 
me.  In  a  little  while  I  shall  be  no  longer  young,  no 

longer  beautiful.  H will  cease  to  love  me, 

and  I  promise  Thee  I  will  then  come  back  to  Thee. 
I  will  be  Thine  only,  and  will  not  neglect  to  go  to 
confession. 

"Until  then  I  must  be  satisfied  to  practise  the 
virtues  that  are  not  too  hard  for  me,  such  as  being 
charitable  to  the  poor — loving  my  neighbor,  and 
forgiving  them. 

"I  think  a  good  father  would  understand  me — 
and  Thou  art  a  good  father." 


72  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

This  is,  my  dear  Roberta,  my  confession  of  faith 
for  the  present.  It  must  do,  and  I  am  telling  you 
about  it  as  freely  and  as  generously  as  I  am  giving 
you  the  address  where  the  cakes  are  to  be  bought. 

Please  do  not  tell  our  delightfully  naughty 
friends.  They  would  laugh  at  me  and  go  around 
telling  everybody  I  have  no  religion. 

My  love  to  you,  your  husband  and  G . 

JULIE. 


HER  FAVORITE  AUTHOR 
(Mon  Romancier] 

Madame  Hautmont 

To  Monsieur  Pierre  Delestang,  homme  de 
lettres: 

ARE  you  satisfied,  my  dear  Pierre,  with  the  con- 
tents of  the  ugly  note  you  sent  me?  It  is  full  of 
venomous  thoughts,  clothed  in  novel-like  phrases 
and  villainous,  spiteful,  and  literary  insults,  such  as 
you  newspaper  men  throw  at  each  other.  It  is,  no 
doubt,  the  revenge  your  vanity  is  taking  for  having 
been  offended,  even  though  the  unconscious  of- 
fender is  a  woman  you  pretend  to  love.  How  many 
ugly,  dark  recesses  are  to  be  found  in  your  souls, 
messieurs  les  celebres! 

No  matter!  I  care  nothing  for  your  note.  I 
laugh  at  your  innuendoes,  your  insults  and  your 
literary  ability.  In  spite  of  your  talent,  your  ce- 
lebrity, your  grand  manners,  and  your  stinging  sen- 
tences, you  are  a  child  that  must  be  scolded,  but 
not  too  harshly,  for  fear  of  throwing  him  into 
hysterics. 

Come  now  and  take  your  scolding,  you  naughty 
romancier. 

73 


74  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

May  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  what  crime  I  have  com- 
mitted against  you?  As  far  as  I  can  see,  my  only 
offence  was  due  to  carelessness,  which  made  me 
send  a  note  to  you  that  was  meant  for  Captain 
Lartigues,  while  he  received  a  very  gracious  one 
telling  him  I  was  thankful  to  him  for  having  been 
so  unusually  "brilliant  at  my  last  dinner  party."  He 
took  everything  for  granted.  He  accepted  the 
thanks  and  was  very  grateful  to  me  for  having  ex- 
tended them!  He  naively  replied:  "How  strange! 
It  seems  to  me,  I  am  always  the  same!"  Dear 
fellow,  perspicacity  is  not  his  greatest  fault!  You, 
a  psychologist  by  profession,  at  once  saw  the  mis- 
take. I  grant  you  my  letter  was  too  tender,  and  I 
blush,  my  friend,  to  think  you  read  the  tender 
phrases  which  were  not  meant  for  you.  Now, 
how  can  I  help  it?  Love  is  rather  profuse  and  does 
not  weigh  methodically  its  endearments,  and  since 
chance  revealed  my  secret  to  you,  I  will  frankly 
tell  you  that  I  am  very  much  in  love  with  Captain 
Lartigues. 

In  love!  Now,  I  have  said  it.  I  have  confessed 
my  crime.  I,  therefore,  am  disgraced — I,  there- 
fore, deserve  all  the  cutting  things  you  showered 
upon  me  when  you  sent  back  my  stray  letter. 

Your  note  was  truly  a  great  success.  "A  woman 
who  receives  such  a  letter  from  a  friend  will,  if 
she  has  any  heart,  feel  the  tears  rush  to  her  eyes 


HER  FAVORITE  AUTHOR          75 

in  spite  of  herself  when  she  comes  to  the  last 
line." 

I  added  this  precious  autograph  to  those  I  pre- 
viously received  from  you,  but  before  putting  them 
all  out  of  sight  I  re-read  those  I  had  received 
from  you  before  my  mistake. 

The  reading  proved  enlightening  and  whole- 
some, I  assure  you.  If  any  tears  still  lurked  in  the 
corners  of  my  eyes  they  were  quickly  dried  before 
I  had  quite  finished  the  reading  of  the  past  month's 
letters.  I  was  laughing  aloud  and  to  myself.  Can 
you  guess  the  reason  why?  Every  one  of  your  last 
month's  letters  demanded,  insistently,  I  say,  that  I 
be  to  you  what  I  am — to  your  profound  disgust — 
to  Monsieur  Lartigues.  Yes,  indeed,  my  roman- 
cler)  you  were  simply  suggesting — and  constantly 
too — that  I  should  become  yours.  Furthermore, 
you  were  not  appealing  to  my  heart  in  particular, 
but  offered  as  an  inducement  pleasures  unknown  to 
married  life.  You  boasted  in  a  very  discreet  and 
witty  fashion  that  you  would  not  love  like  any 
ordinary  lover.  You  knew,  so  you  said,  myste- 
rious incantations  that  would  increase  our  love  and 
enjoyment. 

My  popr  Pierre,  you  were  praising  your  wares 
— if  I  may  so  express  myself — and  you  were  do- 
ing it  cleverly.  I  am  convinced,  however,  that  the 
self-praises  were  true,  and  that  you  must  be  what 


76  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

you  claim  to  be — an  artist  in  love-making.  Can- 
not you  understand  how  amusing  it  was  for  me  to 
see  you  turning  suddenly  into  a  bitter  moralist? 
Taking  me  to  task  for  my  womanly  weakness  be- 
cause Monsieur  Lartigues  was  receiving  the  favors 
you  were  begging  with  such  persistence  ? 

I  know  very  well  the  excuses  you  would  give. 
Monsieur  Lartigues  is  not  a  great  man.  He  is  not 
even  a  man  with  brains.  I  cannot  help  it.  If  he 
had  your  wit  and  your  genius  I  would  like  him  none 
the  less,  but  although  I  enjoy  your  wit  and  genius 
so  much,  I  do  not  like  them  in  the  same  way  I  like 
Monsieur  Lartigues.  Why  should  this  make  you 
angry?  There  is  nothing  offensive  in  what  I  say. 
You  artists  are  constantly  committing  the  error  of 
thinking  that  we  women  must  be  in  love  with  you 
simply  because  we  are  women  and  admire  you. 

No,  indeed,  a  thousand  times  no !  Our  admira- 
tion for  genius  does  not  force  upon  us  such  extreme 
punishment. 

We  spontaneously  separate  your  merits  from 
your  charms ;  something  stronger  than  our  will  de- 
termines what  relations  will  exist  between  the  one 
and  the  other. 

I  know  this  is  not  a  general  rule.  Some  foolish 
and  vain  women  are  not  satisfied  until  they  have 
brought  to  their  feet  the  five  Academies.  Are  such 
women  worth  having?  Their  hearts  are  opened  to 


HER  FAVORITE  AUTHOR          77 

you  as  freely  as  some  would  let  you  write  on  their 
fans  or  in  their  albums.  A  woman  of  some  tem- 
perament and  sound  mind  does  not  at  once  lose  her 
head  over  the  author  of  a  beautiful  book  she  is 
reading,  nor  over  the  composer  of  some  rare  music, 
nor  over  the  artist  who  paints  a  masterpiece.  She 
falls  in  love  with  a  man  for  no  apparent  reason, 
just  because  he  is  himself. 

I  love  Captain  Lartigues  because  his  looks,  his 
voice,  his  manners,  his  disposition,  please  me;  be- 
cause he  came  into  my  life  at  the  most  opportune 
moment;  at  the  time  when  my  husband's  affections 
seemed  to  turn  elsewhere.  I  love  him  because  in 
some  way  this  man  with  no  more  than  an  ordinary 
mind  has  been  able  to  persuade  me  that  he  loves 
me  passionately.  My  only  excuse  for  this  faux  pas 
is  that  there  shall  be  no  other. 

Must  I  for  that  reason  give  up  the  society  of  a 
man  as  famous  as  the  novelist  Pierre  Delestang, 
even  though  he  makes  love  to  me  ?  No  doubt  you 
will  boldly  answer:  "Yes,"  and  begin  a  long  dis- 
sertation on  the  subject  of  woman's  duplicity,  the 
way  they  lead  a  man  on  to  hope  and  to  wish  for 
something  he  will  never  attain!  Come,  my  dear 
Pierre,  tell  me,  is  this  real  life  or  merely  romance  ? 
If  it  is  merely  romance,  I'll  listen  to  you.  You  may 
describe  your  suffering  and  my  perversity  in  such 
a  way  that  I  will  have  no  fault  to  find,  have  noth- 


78  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

ing  to  answer.  If  it  is  real  life,  I'll  interrupt  you 
immediately,  for  your  heart  has  not  suffered  for  a 
single  moment,  dear  friend;  it  is  simply  your 
vanity  that  has  been  hurt  because  some  one  else  has 
succeeded  where  you  have  failed.  That  is  all. 
Really,  deep  in  your  heart  Monsieur  Lartigues 
does  not  worry  you — and  because,  above  all,  your 
greatness  has  not  been  sufficient  to  attract  me. 

Such  is,  indeed,  your  most  tender  spot.  Your 
literary  vanity  is  hurt.  Your  feminine  victims  in 
society  are  dear  to  you  only  because  your  pride  de- 
mands that  you  should  have  as  many  as  your  col- 
league, Monsieur,  just  as  you  must  write  a  novel 
that  will  have  a  greater  sale  than  some  one  else's, 
or  a  drama  that  will  have  a  longer  run.  You  are 
a  literary  Don  Juan  and  you  would  willingly  adver- 
tise the  fact  that  two  thousand  copies  of  your  last 
novel  have  been  sold. 

After  all,  you  are  right — since  your  conquests  in 
society  come  through  your  literary  success — to 
think  as  you  do.  However,  the  reasoning  of  your 
vanity  is  wrong  when  you  find  yourself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman  who  does  not  mistake  literary  ad- 
miration for  sensuous  desires;  or  a  woman  who  is 
able  to  admire  a  book  without  thinking  immedi- 
ately that  she  must  belong  to  the  author.  Your 
vanity  should  not  suffer  because  of  my  indifference, 
for  you  know,  sir,  that  none  of  the  beauties  who 


HER  FAVORITE  AUTHOR          79 

have  favored  you  have  any  higher  appreciation  of 
your  talent  than  I  have.  The  only  difference  be- 
tween them  and  me  is,  that  I  prefer  admiring  you 
in  my  own  way. 

Have  I  not  made  this  clear  to  you?  I  hope  so. 
If  you  are  the  man  of  sense  I  think  you  are,  come 
this  evening  and  beg  to  be  forgiven.  In  order  to 
make  the  thing  easier  to  your  beloved  vanity,  know 
that  it  is  being  reported  that  you  are  my  lover. 
This  piece  of  news  has  been  given  me  by  some 
obliging  friend  of  mine  and  I  understood  at  once 
that  no  denial  on  my  part  could  change  matters. 

Is  my  romancier  pleased?  Will  it  not  be  an- 
other conquest  to  be  added  to  the  mllle-e-tre? 
Truly  it  is  only  a  fictitious  one,  but  it  is  said  that 
novelists  do  not  mind  such  things ! 


EARLY  MORNING  MAIL 

(Courrier  Matinal) 

Eleven  in  the  morning;  a  small  house ',  Rue  Rem- 
brandt. Madame  d'Arteny,  a  plump  brunette, 
thirty  years  of  age,  is  seated  in  her  boudoir  before 
a  writing-table,  covering  a  sheet  of  grey-blue  paper 
with  careful  and  aristocratic  handwriting. 

You  must  not  hold  against  me  the  fact  that  our 
walk  together  has  left  me  delightfully  and  pain- 
fully disturbed.  Understand  me,  dear  friend,  it 
was  so  sweet  to  walk  at  your  side,  my  arm  in  yours, 
through  the  pathways  of  the  far-away  park,  where 
we  were  sure  not  to  meet  a  single  face  we  knew, 
trying  to  find  thus  the  illusion  that  we  legitimately 
belong  to  each  other.  You  are  such  a  delightful 
magician.  Your  words  of  tenderness  intoxicated 
me — everything  was  combining  to  make  me  for- 
get that  duty  called  me  yonder !  Did  my  lips  utter 
a  promise  of  which  I  was  hardly  conscious?  I 
beg  you  will  not  hold  me  to  it.  You  love  me — 
you  say  it  and  I  believe  you — do  not  abuse  the 
power  which  those  few  words,  drawn  from  me  by 
the  surroundings,  have  given  you.  If  you  could 

80 


EARLY  MORNING  MAIL  81 

only  see  me  as  I  am  to-day,  you  would  surely  take 
pity  upon  your  friend. 

All  my  duties — which  were  forgotten  during  our 
walk  to  the  observatory  of  Montsouris — rushed 
back  upon  me  as  I  entered  the  house.  My  hus- 
band was  waiting  for  me — he  has  a  noble  and  gen- 
erous heart,  and  I  never  will  be  able  to  deceive  him 
— he  spoke  of  his  plan  to  rent  a  villa  at  the  sea- 
shore, in  Normandy,  so  as  to  be  able  to  leave  Paris 
with  the  children  early  in  the  season.  The  doctor 
advises  it.  He,  poor  man,  will  remain  here  alone 
all  summer  long,  tied  to  his  business,  and  he  does 
so  loathe  having  to  live  the  life  of  a  bachelor. 

After  that  came  my  son,  Rene,  home  from 
school,  desirous  to  show  me  a  good  report,  of 
which  he  was  justly  proud.  He  kissed  me  on  the 
very  spot  your  lips  had  accidentally  rested  while  in 
the  carriage  on  our  way  back.  I  felt  very  re- 
morseful. 

Then  came  my  daughter,  holding  on  to  her  gov- 
erness' hand,  looking  pale  and  delicate — so  charm- 
ing to  listen  to  when  she  talks  in  her  language,  half 
French,  half  English. 

My  whole  life  as  an  honest  woman  was  meeting 
me  on  every  turn.  I  love  my  husband.  I  love  my 
children — I  must  tell  you  what  I  did  then. 

I  ran  to  my  room  and  with  tears  in  my  eyes  I 
scribbled  you  a  short  note,  saying:  "We  must  not 


82  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

see  each  other  again,  Maxime.  I  feel  my  liking 
for  you  is  too  great  to  endure  long,  should  I  con- 
tinue to  think  so  much  of  you — to  meet  you — the 
honest  woman  I  am,  have  been,  and  will  be.  Adieu; 
do  not  hate  me.  I  could  not  bear  it!  I  really 
never  could  make  you  happy.  Therefore,  be  glad 
I  am  keeping  you  away  from  me." 

This  is  what  my  note  was  saying,  Maxime,  and 
you  should  have  received  it  instead  of  this  one. 

After  having  written  it  I  felt  calmer  during  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  However,  upon  reading  it 
over  this  morning  I  felt  too  fond  of  you  to  cause 
you  so  much  sorrow.  I  tore  up  this  cruel  note  and 
resolved  not  to  dictate  what  you  should  do,  but 
leave  it  all  to  your  judgment.  I  am  now  in  your 
hands  and  at  your  mercy.  I  know  you  are  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  good  man.  Be  stronger  trlan  I, 
Maxime.  You  will  have  strength  for  both  of  us, 
will  you  not,  since  I  have  none  and  our  hearts  alone 
belong  to  one  another? 

Do  answer  me  quickly !  I  do  need  your  letters  so 
much !  But  please  do  not  say  in  them  anything  I 
ought  not  to  hear. 

The  letter  continues  in  this  same  tone  for  six 
long  pages.  Madame  d'Arteny  signs  it  by  the  ab- 
breviation of  her  first  name — "Gab" — reads  it 
over  and  as  she  proceeds  a  light  of  satisfaction 


EARLY  MORNING  MAIL  83 

dawns  in  her  face.     She  folds  the  letter  and  ad- 
dresses it  to: 

Monsieur  Maxime  Renouard, 

Attache  au  Cabinet  du  Ministre  des  Affaires 

Etrangeres, 
8  Rue  Montalivet,  E.  V. 

After  a  few  moments  of  thought  she  takes  an- 
other sheet  and  scribbles  much  more  rapidly,  and 
in  an  entirely  different  style  of  handwriting,  the 
following  lines: 

Your  note  is  received,  and  I  appreciate  the  deli- 
cacy that  prompted  it!  You  dared  address  your 
letter  to  my  own  residence  !  You  speak  in  your  note 
of  things  that  would  leave  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of 
— you  know  who — if  he  should  happen  to  read  it. 
Truly,  my  dear,  your  tone  is  enough  to  cure  me 
forever  of  the  weakness  you  have  wrorked  for  three 
years,  were  I  not  already  cured.  Let  the  past  bury 
its  dead,  however.  We'll  never  mention  it  again. 

You  are  willing  to  return  my  letters,  you  say, 
on  the  condition  that  we  shall  see  each  other 
"every  now  and  then."  "Every  now  and  then"  is 
charming,  indeed.  It  seems  you  do  not  care  to  go 
on  seeing  me  regularly — but,  of  course,  when  you 
have  a  free  afternoon  you  do  not  know  what  to  do 
with  you  will  condescend.  Thank  you !  You  are 


84  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

too  kind!  I  am  not  fond  of  the  filling-in  process, 
nor  of  being  picked  up  and  thrown  aside  whenever 
it  suits  your  fancy. 

When  a  man  begins  to  think  he  does  not  care  to 
see  me,  except  "every  now  and  then,"  I  do  not  care 
to  see  him  at  all.  Therefore,  let  us  break  off  right 
here  and  now,  without  any  trouble  or  scandal,  if 
it  can  be  done.  You  have  some  letters  of  mine  I 
want.  I  have  a  few  confidential  notes  of  yours 
concerning  certain  financial  enterprises — did  you 
forget  about  them?  Just  imagine  what  your  con- 
stituents would  say  if  some  fine  morning  they 
should  read  these  letters  in  the  papers.  It  is  evi- 
dently a  case  of  give  and  take.  The  situation  will 
be  clear  after  that;  and  I  will  be  very  glad  to  show 
you  a  smiling  face  whenever  we  meet  in  society. 

However,  excepting  for  one  thing,  I'll  tell  you 
directly — I  do  not  wish  to  meet  you  soon. 

I  shall  leave  Paris  early  this  year — my  husband 
uses  for  a  pretext  the  necessity,  the  health  of  my 
little  girl,  Valentine — forces  upon  us  to  go  to  the 
seashore  as  early  as  the  month  of  June,  to  have 
more  time  to  give  to  his  edifying  annual  bachelor 
life  while  we  are  away.  I  request  you,  therefore, 
not  to  come  to  the  house  between  now  and  the  time 
set  for  my  departure.  If  you  will  add  to  that  time 
the  months  we  will  be  away,  nearly  half  a  year  will 
go  by  without  our  seeing  each  other.  Is  that  not 


EARLY  MORNING  MAIL  85 

sufficient  time  to  turn  our  common  memories  into 
a  legend? 

One  word  more  relating  to  business!  I  know 
you  like  business  to  be  short  and  precise.  It  is  ab- 
solutely necessary  for  the  settlement  of  our  affairs. 
I  have  just  received  the  quarterly  bill  from  Doucet. 
You  have  always  said  to  me:  "I  mean  to  pay  all 
the  extra  expenses  your  dressing  will  cost  you  as 
long  as  you  are  doing  it  to  please  me,  and  it  is  a 
credit  to  me."  Whom  do  you  think  should  pay  this 
bill?  I  leave  it  to  you  to  decide. 

It  seems  to  me  we  could  part  amicably,  and  if 
you  are  reasonable,  I,  myself,  will  willingly  come 
for  the  last  time,  since  you  wish  to  see  me,  and  get 
the  receipted  bill  in  our  old  loving  home,  Rue 
Clement-Mar  ot. 

A  vous,  en  bon  camarade> 

GABRIELLE. 

Madame  d'Arteny  puts  her  letter  in  an  en- 
velope, on  which  she  writes  the  following  address: 

Baron  Siherberg,  depute, 

9,  Avenue  d'Antin,  E.  V. 

and  rings  for  her  maid. 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY 

(Le  Cahier  de  Genevieve) 


May  Twentieth. 

WHY  am  I  sad  and  restless?  Why  is  my  heart 
so  filled  with  black  shadows,  as  Mother  Superieur 
Reine  des  Anges  used  to  say,  in  the  happy  days 
when  I  knew  no  greater  care  than  those  of  child- 
hood ;  when  I  had  no  husband  nor — what  was  I  go- 
ing to  write? — All  the  joy  I  get  now-a-days  comes 
from  my  child,  a  little  darling,  nineteen  months 
old,  my  little  boy  Rene. 

Mother  Reine  des  Anges  had  given  the  name  of 
"black  shadows"  to  the  vague  and  obscure  things 
that  weigh  upon  one's  heart  without  knowing 
whence  they  come  and  what  they  are.  She  also  had 
discovered  a  method  of  fighting  them.  This  is  how 
it  was  done: 

You  retired  to  your  room,  pen  or  pencil  in  hand ; 
spread  before  you  was  a  beautiful  piece  of  white 
paper.  You  would  then  reflect.  After  a  steady 
search  the  black  shadows  were  always  discovered, 
each  in  a  separate  corner,  deep  down  in  your  heart, 

86 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  87 

the  real  cause  of  your  vague  sadness  would  come 
forth,  little  by  little,  and  be  revealed. 

As  you  found  a  black  shadow  you  would  take 
note  of  it  as  clearly  as  possible  and  number  it. 
When  all  that  could  be  found  were  written  on  the 
paper,  you  would  then  try  to  find  a  remedy  for 
them.  You  tried  to  resign  yourself — prayed  over 
it,  and  in  this  way  calm  and  good  cheer  would 
finally  be  restored. 

Alas!  as  I  advance  in  life — I  have  not  gone  very 
far — I  see  why  life  is  so  hopeless,  so  full  of  pit- 
falls and  misery.  It  is  because  I  have  given  up  the 
wholesome  discipline  of  the  convent  days.  How 
much  stronger  it  would  make  one  if  you  could  ap- 
ply it  to  life  at  home  and  in  society. 

However,  it  is  never  too  late  to  mend.  Let  us 
try  the  remedy  of  Mother  Superieur  Reine  des 
Anges.  We  will  apply  it  especially  to  myself. 
Who  am  I  ?  I  am  Genevieve  Olivier,  ex-pupil  and 
boarder  of  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  of 
Blois,  to-day  bearing  the  title  of  Comtesse  Raoul 
de  Boistelle,  having  taken  unto  myself  three  years 
ago  a  naughty,  very  naughty  and  lovable  man  for 
a  husband.  I  am  now  twenty  years  old  and  mother 
of  a  lovely  baby,  whom  I  worship. 

Before  me  now  is  the  prescribed  white  sheet  of 
paper.  I  take  a  brand-new  pen  and  sit  down  to 
write,  having  first  bolted  my  door. 


88  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Baby  is  asleep.  His  nurse  is  with  him.  Raoul 
is  at  the  club,  or  so,  at  least,  we  will  suppose  him  to 
be  at  this  hour,  this  Sunday  afternoon. 

I  shall  not  be  disturbed.    I  may  begin  my  search. 

MY  BLACK  SHADOWS 

No.  I.  It  is  Sunday,  a  sad  day,  most  particularly 
sad  between  lunch  and  dinner.  It  is  hot — abomi- 
nably hot — and  that  makes  me  very  uncomfort- 
able. 

No.  2.  Baby  has  a  pimple  at  the  corner  of  his 
mouth.  I  have  been  anxious  about  him  for  a  week. 
I  used  to  be  so  proud  of  his  health,  but  for  the  past 
week  he  looks  pale  and  feverish.  His  nurse  says 
he  does  not  sleep. 

No.  3.  Whitefern  has  made  a  fiasco  of  my 
travelling  suit  after  having  tried  it  on  ten  times. 
He  finally  sent  it  to  me  this  morning  while  I  was 
asleep,  evidently  so  that  I  could  not  try  it  on  before 
the  girl  who  brought  it.  I  am  a  sight  in  it ;  I  look 
like  a  female  coachman  in  the  moving  pictures. 
All  that  is  necessary  to  make  the  picture  complete 
is  the  hat  and  whip.  How  very  troublesome !  My 
leaving  for  the  country  will  be  delayed. 

No.  4.  But  the  real  grief,  the  blackest  of  black 
shadows,  the  only  one  which  really  counts,  is  that 
I  am  jealous,  not  stupidly  jealous  without  cause; 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  89 

not  simply  for  the  sake  of  tormenting  my  husband 
and  myself !  I  have  a  good  reason,  a  very  good 
one. 

To  begin  with,  Raoul  no  longer  loves  me.  If  I 
died  he  would  be  sorry,  I  think,  but  he  would  not 
mourn  very  long.  I  can  already  see  that  I  bore 
him;  that  he  prefers  to  be  where  I  am  not.  It 
breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  such  things,  but  the 
method  of  Mother  Reine  des  Anges  is  very  exact- 
ing and  requires  a  sincere  scrutiny  of  the  black 
shadows. 

To  be  no  longer  loved  by  my  husband  is  bad 
enough,  but  that  is  not  all.  He  loves  some  one  else. 
I  do  not  know  exactly  who  is  taking  him  away 
from  me  nor  how  much  he  is  interested.  Oh,  if  I 
only  knew !  One  thing  I  am  certain  of,  and  that  is, 
that  some  one  is  drawing  him  away.  My  suspicions 
rest  between  a  young  married  woman  and  a  young 
girl. 

A  young  girl !  Can  she  be  called  a  young  girl  in 
the  same  sense  of  the  word  as  it  was  applied  to  us 
schoolgirls,  so  innocent,  so  timid,  so  reserved? 

Mademoiselle  Lucie  de  Giverny  is  one  of  those 
ultra-fashionable  Parisiennes  who  wants  to  intro- 
duce amongst  us  the  American  customs.  Mile,  de 
Giverny  drives  out  alone;  is  seen  alone  at  the 
Salon  with  a  gentleman  who  shows  her  the  paint- 
ings! Proprieties  are  not  offended  as  long  as  her 


90  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

mother's  carriage  awaits  them  outside.  At  a  ball 
she  selects  the  partner  she  likes,  takes  him  into  a 
corner  and  there  alone  with  him  flirts  outrageously ! 
Yesterday  at  the  Avrezacs'  she  chose  my  husband, 
and  he  wondered  why  I  became  hysterical  in  the 
carriage  on  the  way  home! 

The  young  married  woman,  Madame  Dela- 
veaux,  is  the  wife  of  an  artist.  She  is  an  exquisite 
blonde  with  pink  and  white  complexion,  very 
pretty,  too  pretty  in  fact. 

Why  do  we  receive  in  our  set  people  who  do  not 
belong  in  it  like  this  Madame  Delaveaux,  for  in- 
stance? It  is  said  she  was  her  husband's  model 
before  she  became  his  wife,  and  yet  they  are  both 
received  everywhere,  he  because  he  has  talent,  she 
because  every  man  likes  her. 

She  has  made  love  to  Raoul — every  woman 
makes  love  to  him — Dieu !  I  wish  he  were  less 
fascinating.  I  should  love  him  just  the  same,  but 
every  woman  would  not  try  to  take  him  away  from 
me. 

Madame  Delaveaux  had  been  making  love  to 
my  husband  for  a  fortnight  when  all  at  once  they 
seemed  to  avoid  each  other,  and  I  felt  very  happy 
thinking  they  did  not  care  for  each  other.  When 
I  told  mamma  so — she  always  calls  my  attention  to 
Raoul's  misdeeds — she  said  I  was  mistaken. 

"Take  care,"  she  said.     "They  no  longer  flirt 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  91 

openly;  therefore  they  do  it  secretly.  Keep  an 
eye  on  your  husband." 

"Then  he  is  not  flirting  with  Mademoiselle  de 
Giverny,"  I  said. 

"Look  out  for  her,  too,"  my  mother  replied. 

I  did  what  my  mother  told  me  to  do.  I  distrust 
Mademoiselle  de  Giverny.  I  distrust  Raoul;  con- 
sequently I  am  very  unhappy  and  suffer  terribly. 

These  are  the  black  shadows  I  found  in  my  heart 
after  a  thorough  search. 

REMEDIES  FOR  MY  BLACK  SHADOWS 

1.  This  can  easily  be  remedied.     Giving  orders 
to  the  servants  to  keep  my  shutters  closed  will  do  it. 

2.  The  baby?    The  doctor  said  it  was  nothing, 
but  as  there  is  an  epidemic  of  varioloid  in  the 
neighborhood,  I  will  send  for  a  specialist. 

3.  My  spoiled  suit — I  will  simply  refuse  to  take 
it  and  order  another.     Whitefern  is  very  accom- 
modating.    He  will  have  time  to  finish  it  before 
I  go. 

4.  Concerning  my  husband,  oh,  Mother  Reine 
des  Anges,  do  come  to  my  rescue  I     Inspire  me ! 
Help  me !  as  you  used  to  do  during  your  life. 

I  cannot  stand  by  and  see  my  husband's  love 
taken  from  me  without  making  an  effort  to  hold  it. 
I  am  very  much  in  love  with  Raoul.  I  am  his, 


92  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

heart  and  soul.  I  am  pretty  and  many  times  since 
our  marriage  men  have  shown  me  much  attention. 
Shall  I  flirt  to  make  him  jealous?  No,  I  will  not 
stoop  to  such  a  method  to  keep  my  husband's  love ! 
What  am  I  to  do  against  my  two  enemies,  Made- 
moiselle de  Giverny  and  Madame  Delaveaux?  A 
scene  in  public  would  do  more  harm  than  good,  and 
although  Raoul  is  flirting  outrageously,  he  is  ap- 
parently not  neglecting  me.  To  accept  things  as 
they  are,  is  beyond  my  power.  I  will  not.  I  am 
no  saint !  I  cannot  bear  to  be  deceived.  I  have  a 
perfect  right  to  his  faithfulness.  I  must  find  out 
the  true  state  of  affairs,  but  how? 

The  other  day  a  circular  came  by  mail  addressed 
to  me  Comtesse  de  Boistelle — and  I  opened  it  un- 
suspectingly before  my  husband.  It  was  from  an 
agency  who  undertakes  to  watch  husbands  for  the 
sake  of  the  wives  and  vice  versa. 

I  held  the  circular  out  to  him.  After  a  glance  he 
crumpled  it  angrily  and  threw  it  in  the  fire.  He 
ought  to  know  that  I  would  never  resort  to  such 
means.  I  will  never  have  him  watched  by  detec- 
tives !  I'll  do  it  myself.  He  need  have  no  fear  I'll 
open  his  mail  or  his  desk;  but  since  a  woman  must 
follow  her  husband,  the  husband  should  not  go 
where  he  cannot  take  his  wife.  Let  him  look  out ! 
Maybe  some  day  when  he  goes  to  a  rendezvous — 
his  eyes  brilliant  with  anticipation  as  they  some- 


93 

times  are — he  will  find  his  wife  instead  of  the 
woman  he  is  looking  for. 

I  must  have  been  meditating  a  long  time. 
Through  the  window  everything  in  the  garden  ap- 
pears beautiful  under  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
and  Paris  seems  far,  far  away. 

How  many  apparently  good  reasons  I  have  to 
enjoy  life !  Kind  parents,  a  charming  husband,  a 
beautiful  child,  every  slight  wish  of  mine  gratified. 
Yes,  I  would  enjoy  life  but  for  two  pairs  of  lovely 
eyes,  the  one  pair  blue,  the  other  pair  black.  I 
would  put  out  those  eyes  if  I  could  do  so  without 
making  their  owners  suffer  and  without  causing 
pain  to  those  who  have  a  right  to  love  them. 

I  love  my  husband.  He  must  be  mine  and  mine 
only! 

II 

May  Twenty-sixth. 

I  am  all  alone  this  evening,  as  has  happened  so 
many  times  this  year.  Where  is  Raoul?  I  did  not 
even  ask  him  where  he  was  going,  knowing  full 
well  he  would  answer:  "I  am  going  to  the  club." 
I  must  do  him  the  credit  to  say  he  asked  me  to  go 
to  the  Avrezacs,'  but  I  refused.  I  am  certain  he  is 
there  because  they  will  be  there. 


94  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

I  have  told  the  nurse  to  go  out  and  I  am  sitting 
by  baby's  little  bed.  He  is  perfectly  adorable  when 
he  is  asleep,  and  it  is  all  I  can  do  to  refrain  from 
kissing  him  for  fear  of  waking  him  up — for  when 
disturbed  in  his  first  nap  master  baby  flatly  refuses 
to  fall  asleep  again  until  it  is  time  for  him  to  take 
his  second  one.  Next  June  he  will  be  nineteen 
months  old.  He  is  very  tall  for  his  age,  and  I  do 
hope  with  all  my  heart  he  will  grow  to  be  the 
biggest,  healthiest,  smartest  of  all  the  children  I 
know.  Pride  and  egotism  are  allowed  to  mother- 
hood. 

He  has  been  better  lately,  although  the  doctor 
comes  to  see  him  regularly  every  day.  I  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  drawing  out  of  the  doctor  that  the  child 
was  all  right. 

When  I  think  of  the  possibility  of  losing  him  I 
almost  lose  my  mind. 

While  I  am  sitting  with  my  son,  Raoul  is  beg- 
ging Mademoiselle  de  Giverny  to  grant  him  a  tete- 
a-tete,  or  else  he  is  asking  Madame  Delaveaux  for 
a  rendezvous. 

I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  the  flirtation  has 
gone  further  than  the  innocent  stage.  My  per- 
sonal experience,  and  above  all,  mamma's  advice, 
have  dispelled  my  former  naivete.  "When  your 
husband  flirts,"  said  mother,  "there  is  only  between 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  95 

flirtation  and  adultery  the  distance  of  a  material 
possibility." 

I  loathe  the  word  flirtation. 

To  help  pass  the  hours  of  watching  by  the  baby's 
bedside  I  went  into  Raoul's  den  for  the  papers. 
Being  a  most  careless  and  trusting  husband,  Raoul 
had  left  his  keys  in  the  lock  of  his  desk.  Was  I 
tempted?  I  believe  not. 

I  left  the  room,  however;  rang  for  my  husband's 
valet ;  asked  him  to  go  and  bring  the  papers  to  me. 
I  know  as  well  as  though  I  saw  him  do  it  that  he 
locked  the  desk  and  took  away  the  keys.  The  man 
had  been  with  Raoul  before  his  marriage  and  I 
know  he  dislikes  me. 

Anyway,  here  are  the  papers:  Le  Figaro,  Le 
Gaulois,  La  Libre  Parole.  I  do  not  usually  indulge 
in  journalistic  literature.  Those  that  discuss  serious 
questions  bore  me.  Those  publishing  stories  our 
brothers  and  husbands  find  amusing  I  do  not  un- 
derstand. This  one,  says  Raoul,  is  usually  read  by 
brokers,  cercleux  clubmen  and  the  demi-monde. 
Let  us  try  what  reading  it  will  do  for  a  serious 
woman,  the  wife  of  a  cercleux. 

"I  learn  that  Mile.  Irma  Descloziers,  Marguer- 
ite de  Bourgogne,  Miss  Champagne,  etc.,  were  seen 
at  the  Bois." 

Twelve  lines  given  to  them.  Who  is  interested? 
Their  friends? 


96  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Politics.  Let's  pass  on.  The  events  of  the  day. 
Mathematical  puzzles.  Personals.  This  is  amus- 
ing! A  great  many  comedies  and  dramas  appear 
in  these  few  lines. 


T. — I  spent  an  hour  pyrm  knpt  vyq  hrsm  three 
of  which  were  quystg.  Ogts  will  almost  be  a 
wytmposrwmd  if  I  have  not  rec.  try  to  pqvn.-phule. 

Fus— Thanks  2  let.  writ.  H.A.A.S.   Sed.S.V.P. 
Map — Will  meet  you  at  three  P.  M.   CLEO. 

Why  what  is  this  I  see?  Suddenly  I  felt  as 
though  my  heart  had  stopped !  The  paper  fell  un- 
heeded to  the  floor  and  I  nearly  lost  consciousness. 
Having  slightly  recovered  from  the  shock,  though 
weak,  I  picked  up  the  paper  and  re-read  with  dif- 
ficulty the  following  lines : 

R. — Joy!  To-morrow  night.  Saturday.  Suc- 
ceeded in  getting  away  from  this  horrid  country 
place.  Will  be  at  the  chosen  nest  at  10  P.  M.  Come 
if  you  mean  to  be  good,  not  otherwise.  SUZE. 

How  did  I  know  at  once  that  R.  is  my  husband 
and  Suze  is  Suzanne  Delaveaux?  I  did  not  know 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  97 

she  was  away  from  Paris!  I  even  said  jokingly  to 
Raoul  this  very  day:  "You  will  see  the  beautiful 
Suzanne  where  you  are  going."  He  only  looked  at 
me  without  saying  a  word.  Did  he  not  know  she 
was  away  or  was  he  making  fun  of  me?  I  know 
not,  but  I  am  certain  this  personal  signed  "Suze" 
is  for  Raoul.  The  more  I  read  over  the  fateful 
lines,  the  more  I  am  convinced. 

What  I  feared  has  come  true  then.  There  is 
somewhere  in  Paris  a  place  where  the  man  to  whom 
I  gave  all  that 

The  last  words  give  me  hope.  She  does  not 
love  him.  Otherwise  she  never  would  have  said: 
"Do  not  come  unless  you  mean  to  be  good."  What 
can  the  wretch  want  of  him  ? 

Baby's  nurse  is  coming  back.  I'll  send  her  away. 
I'll  sleep  near  baby  to-night.  I  could  not  bear  to 
see  Raoul.  Here,  close  to  my  son,  I  may  have  the 
strength  not  to  despair.  God  grant  it  1 

III 

It  is  raining,  and  the  depressing  and  sultry  at- 
mosphere is  in  perfect  harmony  with  my  condition 
of  mind.  Everything  is  coming  at  once. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  night  baby  showed 
signs  of  restlessness  and  fever.  He  is  scarcely  any 
better  this  morning  and  I  am  awaiting  anxiously 


98  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

the  arrival  of  Doctor  Robin.  Oh,  God!  this  is 
almost  more  than  I  can  bear,  my  child,  my  hus- 
band. 

Doubt  has  now  become  a  certainty.  I  asked 
Raoul  this  morning  as  quietly  as  I  could : 

"Was  Madame  Delaveaux  at  the  party  last 
night?"  He  hesitated  before  replying: 

"I  don't  know — no — she  wasn't." 

I  insisted:  "Has  she  left  Paris?" 

"Why,  my  dear,"  he  replied  impatiently,  "how 
should  /  know?  Am  I  her  keeper?  Never  men- 
tion her  name  to  me  again.  You  do  not  like  her. 
I  don't  see  why.  She  has  always  been  kind  to 
you." 

I  was  angry  with  him  and  left  him  without  say- 
ing anything  to  him  about  baby's  condition. 

So  be  it.  Let  him  have  a  good  time  outside  of 
his  home  if  he  wants  to !  I  alone  will  watch !  He 
has  forfeited  his  right  to  his  son. 

Toward  ten  o'clock  a  man  brought  a  band-box 
to  the  house  addressed  to  Madame  de  Boistelle,  13, 
Rue  Vezelay.  As  I  live  at  Faubourg  Saint-Honore 
and  always  give  my  name  as  Comtesse  de  Boistelle 
the  mistake  was  evident.  I  sent  for  the  man  and 
told  him  I  had  bought  nothing  at  his  store. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we  thought  there  might  be 
some  mistake,  but  the  Comte  ordered  it  himself, 
and  there  was  no  one  at  Rue  Vezelay."  At  that 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  99 

moment  I  turned  so  very  pale  that  the  man 
stopped.  He  understood ! 

"Take  it  back,"  I  said,  and  I  ran  to  my  own 
room.  This  is  the  way  chance  took  to  reveal  the 
place  of  my  husband's  rendezvous.  He  is  to  meet 
Madame  Delaveaux  to-night  and  I  know  the  ad- 
dress. What  shall  I  do  ?  Is  it  not  my  duty  to  go 
and  prevent  my  husband  from  doing  wrong?  I  am 
tempted  to  tell  Raoul  when  he  comes  to  dinner: 
"I  know  everything,"  and  also  to  tell  him  how  this 
knowledge  was  forced  upon  me. 

Of  course  he  will  deny  everything.  He  has 
learned  to  lie  lately.  Better  say  nothing  and  go 
to-night  to  Rite  Vezelay  and  wait  for  him  outside. 
He  will  not  be  able  to  deny  then. 

But  what  a  dreadful  thing.  No  matter — I 
must. 

Next  Day,  2  P.  M. 

The  doctor  has  been  here.  He  said  nothing  re- 
assuring. Baby  is  ill.  His  temperature  grows 
higher  every  minute.  Every  now  and  then  I  hear 
his  tearful  little  voice  say:  "Mamma,  cold."  He 
is  shivering  and  yet  his  body  is  moist. 

I  asked  the  doctor  to  tell  me  the  truth,  whether 
it  was  serious  or  not.  He  shook  his  head  doubt- 
fully and  said  gravely: 

"I  don't  know  for  the  present.    It  is  only  fever. 


ioo  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

It  may  leave  him  as  quickly  as  it  came.  II  it  does 
not,  why  it  will  turn  into  some  of  the  diseases  chil- 
dren generally  have — measles,  scarlet  fever,  vario- 
loid." 

Varioloid!  That  is  what  frightens  me.  I 
looked  through  the  paper  this  morning  and  saw 
the  epidemic  was  subsiding. 

God  has  taken  so  many  little  ones  away 
from  their  poor  mothers!  Will  He  spare  me 
mine? 

At  lunch  to-day  Raoul  and  I  spoke  little.  He 
was  very  kind,  trying  to  make  me  forget  his  ill- 
humour  of  the  morning,  or  perhaps  what  he  in- 
tends to  do  this  evening. 

He  asked:  "Is  baby  better?" 

"No,"  I  replied.  "Worse.  He  has  had  a  bad 
night  and  I  am  very  anxious  about  him." 

I  was  unable  to  keep  back  the  tears  that  came 
to  my  eyes.  Raoul  got  up  to  kiss  me.  Thinking 
of  the  other  woman,  I  drew  back  instinctively  and 
his  lips  only  touched  my  hair.  He  sat  down  again. 
He  had  turned  very  pale  and  shortly  after  resum- 
ing his  seat  his  tumbler  broke  at  the  stem. 

Lunch  ended  in  silence,  and  while  Raoul  lighted 
his  cigar  I  went  back  to  baby. 

I  am  a  coward.  I  cannot  bear  to  lose  husband 
or  child.  God  give  me  strength !  I  would  rather 
die  than  to  have  Raoul  faithless.  I  would  rather 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  101 

die  than  lose  my  son !  But  if  I  must  choose — oh, 
God !  I  will  give  up  Raoul's  love  to  save  my  child's 
life. 

IV. 

TALLOIRES,  June  Eighteenth. 

Everything  is  peaceful  and  bright  around  our 
villa,  which  is  asleep  in  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The 
mountains  appear  blue  and  white.  The  lake  is 
beautiful — Paris  seems  so  far  away! 

Paris  is  indeed  far  away,  and  so  is  yesterday's 
past.  The  cruel  hours  of  suffering  which  made 
me  wish  for  death  are  all  over!  Life  begins 
brightly  and  smoothly  again.  I  hardly  dare  to  be- 
lieve that  all  my  troubles  are  over. 

The  last  lines  written  in  my  diary  are  very  des- 
perate ones.  They  were  written  beside  baby's  bed 
when  he  was  suffering  dreadfully,  moaning  con- 
stantly in  his  sleep. 

Toward  four  o'clock  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door.  Joseph,  my  husband's  valet,  came  in. 

"What  is  it,  Joseph?" 

"His  lordship  wants  to  know  if  Monsieur  le 
Vicomte  is  better." 

Monsieur  le  Vicomte  is  my  son. 

"Did  not  his  lordship  go  out?" 

"No,  my  lady,  his  lordship  is  in  his  rooms  and 
wishes  to  be  informed  of  the  arrival  of  the  doctor." 


102  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

"Very  well,  Joseph,  the  nurse  will  let  him 
know." 

So  my  husband  had  not  gone  out.  He  was  anx- 
ious about  the  baby's  health.  He  wanted  to  be 
there  when  the  doctor  came.  His  solicitude  irri- 
tated me.  I  was  so  angry  with  him  that  I  did  not 
want  him  to  come  near  Rene.  He  should,  at  least, 
leave  me  alone  with  the  child. 

The  doctor  came  soon  after  five  o'clock.  I  sent 
the  maid  for  Raoul.  He  came  in  looking  so  differ- 
ent from  his  usual  independent  self  that  I  felt  sorry 
for  him.  He  was  really  suffering. 

"Nothing  new.  We  must  wait,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, putting  down  baby's  head  on  the  pillow.  "You 
must  wait ;  be  ready  for  an  emergency.  Something 
will  surely  develop.  Have  you  a  good  physician 
in  the  neighborhood?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"In  case  he  should  be  needed." 

"Yes,  there  is  a  Doctor  Guil." 

"I'll  write  him  a  note  and  recommend  you  to 
him.  Send  for  him  at  any  hour  of  the  night." 

The  doctor  went  away  and  Raoul  and  I  were 
left  together.  I  paid  no  attention  to  him  whatever. 
Raoul  finally  said  in  a  strained  voice : 

"I  will  dine  at  home  this  evening." 

I  read  him  like  an  open  book.  Had  Raoul  said 
this  no  later  than  yesterday  I  would  have  been  be- 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  103 

side  myself  with  joy.  To-day  I  did  not  care,  and 
coldly  replied: 

"You  may  if  you  like.     I  will  not  come  down." 

Our  eyes  met  and  he  realized  that  I  knew. 

"As  you  wish,"  he  answered. 

I  was  standing  before  the  baby's  bed,  partly 
concealing  him.  Raoul  did  not  venture  nearer,  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  left  the  room.  Then 
the  long  hours  of  waiting  and  watching  began 
again. 

Finally  baby  fell  asleep,  and  overcome  by  the 
moral  and  physical  strain  of  the  last  few  days,  I, 
too,  dozed  off.  A  slight  noise  awakened  me.  My 
husband  was  leaning  over  the  cradle,  candle  in 
hand,  looking  intently  at  the  child.  He  was 
dressed  ready  to  go  out.  I  looked  at  the  clock.  It 
was  nine-thirty.  He  is  going,  I  thought.  In  half 
an  hour  he  will  be  in  Madame  Delaveaux's  arms. 
For  an  instant  I  struggled  with  the  desire  to  go 
and  be  there  first,  but  the  struggle  did  not  last  long. 
My  place  is  here !  I  am  ready  to  make  the  sacrifice 
of  my  husband's  love,  if  that  is  to  be  the  price  of 
baby's  life. 

Suddenly  Raoul  cried : 

"Genevieve !" 

I  arose.    Baby  was  at  stake.    I  was  sure  of  that. 

"Well,"  what  is  it?" 

"Look!" 


104  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

He  was  pointing  to  some  large  red  spots  on  the 
face  and  arms  of  the  child. 

"Oh,  God!  What  is  the  matter?  Surely  not 
varioloid?"  And  forgetting  everything  I  threw 
my  arms  around  my  husband. 

Raoul  went  at  once  for  the  doctor.  It  seemed 
an  eternity  before  his  return,  bringing  the  doctor 
with  him. 

Fully  five  minutes  passed  while  the  doctor  ex- 
amined Rene  without  speaking.  We  waited  anx- 
iously. 

"Well,  doctor,"  said  the  Comte.  "Is  it  very 
serious?" 

"I  think  not,  but  I  am  not  quite  certain." 

"Is  it  varioloid?"  I  asked  breathlessly. 

"I  think  not." 

He  said  this  calmly,  quite  unconscious  he  was 
putting  new  life  into  me.  I  fell  into  Raoul's  arms 
when  I  heard  him  say,  "Chicken-pox."  Perhaps 
my  son  was  safe !  This  great  joy  proved  too  much 
for  me,  and  I  lost  consciousness. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  on  the  bed.  My 
husband  was  at  my  side.  I  asked  about  Rene. 

"He  is  better.  It  is,  after  all,  a  slight  case  of 
varioloid.  He  is  all  broken  out ;  looks  very  ugly ; 
but  the  danger  is  past.  The  nurse  is  with  him. 
But  you — how  are  you?" 

"I?    I  am  very  well." 


GENEVIEVE'S  DIARY  105 

I  tried  to  get  up,  but  was  so  very  exhausted  that 
I  fell  back  upon  the  pillow  with  a  sigh. 

"Poor  child!"  said  Raoul,  taking  my  hand. 

During  the  silence  that  followed  my  thoughts 
were  busy.  I  said  to  myself:  Raoul  is  here.  He 
must  have  returned  from  the  Rue  Pezelay,  or  else 
he  did  not  go  at  all.  I  could  not  refrain  from 
asking  when  he  returned. 

"Why,  with  the  doctor.  I  have  stayed  at  your 
side  ever  since  you  have  been  lying  here." 

His  face  came  quite  close  to  mine.  I  murmured: 
"Well?" 

He  understood  and  replied  very  low : 

"You  are  the  only  woman  I  love,  and  you  must 
forgive  me." 

Never  since  the  days  of  our  honeymoon  had  he 
given  me  such  a  kiss. 

As  soon  as  baby  could  be  moved  we  came  to 
Talloires,  our  country  place.  I  am  very  happy. 
On  the  morning  following  that  horrible  night  I 
saw  a  telegram  saying: 

"I  waited  for  you  yesterday  two  hours  in  a 
stupid  room.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  ill- 
bred  people. 

"SUZE." 

Concerning  Mademoiselle  de  Giverny?  She  is 
to  be  married  in  a  few  weeks. 


LES  YEUX 

Mademoiselle  Antoinette  Legrand 

To  Monsieur  le  Ficomte  Herve  de  Laverriere: 

THERE  is  no  doubt  in  writing  to  you  that  my 
name  at  the  end  of  this  letter  will  not  tell  you  any- 
thing, will  recall  nothing.  So  many  adventures 
must  happen  to  you. 

Although  I  am  wrong  to  call  what  passed  be- 
tween us  an  adventure — for  you  it  was  nothing  at 
all,  because  the  next  minute  you  had  forgotten  the 
very  young  girl  in  black  whom  you  followed  one 
evening,  the  eighteenth  of  last  May,  from  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Rue  Boissy  d'  Anglais  to  the  Place  des 
Pyramides.  Do  you  not  remember? 

You  spoke  to  me  there  and  we  walked  together 
up  to  the  Rue  Montorgueil,  near  my  home.  You 
were  in  evening  dress,  white  necktie,  patent  leather 
shoes  and  a  black  Macferlane,  lined  with  satin. 
Oh,  I  remember  it  all  well  enough !  It  seemed  so 
funny,  so  charming,  to  be  with  you  in  the  street, 
chatting  as  if  we  knew  each  other!  I  was  con- 
fused, but  I  was  happy. 

I  thought:  Since  he  walks  beside  me  before 
everybody  in  broad  daylight  it  must  be  that  he 

10$ 


LES  YEUX  107 

thinks  I  am  not  too  homely,  neither  too  badly 
dressed.  And  after  you  had  left  me,  after  having 
kissed  me,  I  knew  that  in  spite  of  what  I  had  said 
I  would  go  to  the  rendezvous  that  you  gave  me  for 
the  next  day,  to  your  rooms  in  Rue  de  la  Terrace. 
Oh !  you  cannot  imagine  all  that  went  through  my 
head  and  heart  during  the  time  which  followed  1 

When  I  was  telling  you  during  our  walk  that  I 
had  no  sweetheart,  that  I  had  always  been  good 
and  had  never  wished  to  be  anything  else,  you  were 
laughing,  and  you  would  stop  to  look  at  me  in  my 
eyes,  and  you  were  saying  to  yourself:  "Good! 
Really!  A  little  Parisienne  like  you?  With  such 
eyes  and  such  a  mouth — good  at  nineteen?"  And 
I  could  see  that  you  only  half  believed  me.  Well, 
it  was  true.  I  swear  it  still,  and  you  would  surely 
believe  me  if  you  were  near  me  at  this  moment,  a 
moment  when  one  does  not  wish  to  joke  or  lie. 

Ah  !  Monsieur  Herve,  I  am  very  511 — I,  who  was 
so  well  all  spring  and  summer.  Bronchitis  had  come 
over  me  as  soon  as  the  cold  weather  came.  I  have 
never  been  very  strong.  Then  our  work,  it  is  ter- 
rible for  delicate  lungs.  We  try  on  one  after 
another  an  evening  dress,  a  fur  coat,  and  the  awful 
heat  of  the  furnace  and  the  change  of  doors  opened 
suddenly  upon  us !  Besides,  always  standing,  turn- 
ing round  like  a  dummy — that  is  what  we  are 
called.  Moreover — but  I  must  not  write  sad 


io8  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

things.  I  am  not  angry  with  you — not  at  all,  not 
at  all.  I  only  have  something  to  ask  you  which 
would  give  me  great  pleasure.  You  will  not  re- 
fuse me  when  you  have  read  my  letter. 

The  evening  of  the  rendezvous  (I  had  said  no, 
no;  but  you  understood  that  it  meant  yes)  I  had 
left  the  atelier  one  hour  sooner  than  usual  and 
quickly  ran  home  to  dress.  I  said  to  my  sister  that 
I  was  going  to  the  theatre  with  friends.  She 
knows  I  am  not  frivolous,  so  she  had  no  suspicion. 
I  assure  you  I  was  quite  pretty  when  I  came  to 
wait  for  you  at  nine  o'clock  at  the  corner  of  Rue 
de  la  Terrace.  I  no  longer  wore  my  little  black 
gown.  I  had  a  pretty  blue  tailored  costume,  copied 
after  a  model  that  we  have  made  for  an  English 
princess!  I  came  to  see  you  again,  so  happy  that 
I  had  no  remorse  left,  I  assure  you. 

(I  have  thought  about  it  since,  and  in  cold 
blood,  too.  You  might  have  done  with  me  as  you 
wished.  We  know  that  one  cannot  be  good  all 
one's  life,  and  it  is  good  luck  if  one  marries  one's 
first  sweetheart.  You  understand  Monsieur  Herve, 
that  I  did  not  expect  you  to  marry  me.  I  knew  that 
you  would  soon  be  tired  and  would  leave  me,  and 
you  would  marry  a  rich  young  lady;  but  that  didn't 
matter — I  was  happy,  just  the  same,  to  think  that 
you  would  love  me  for  a  while  and  that  I  should 
be  to  you  what  I  had  never  been  to  any  one,  as 


LES  YEUX  109 

if  you  were  my  husband.  You  pleased  me  so  much ! 
You  did  not  imagine  the  impression  you  made  upon 
me.  We  see  so  many  gentlemen  at  our  house,  who 
accompany  their  wives  or  friends,  but  no  one  has 
your  face,  your  pretty  teeth  and  your  eyes — espe- 
cially your  eyes !  While  I  was  waiting  for  you  at 
the  Rue  de  la  Terrace  I  was  thinking  of  your  eyes, 
and  I  was  thinking  also  that  if  I  should  dare  when 
we  would  be  alone  and  I  would  kiss  them — kiss 
them! 

I  waited  one  hour,  two  hours.  I  waited  until 
past  midnight,  watching  the  corner  of  Avenue  Fil- 
liers  and  the  boulevard.  I  waited  so  long  that  peo- 
ple evidently  took  me  for  what  I  was  not.  Some 
gentlemen  approached  me  and  said  unpleasant 
things,  and  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  to  put  them 
aside,  because  I  did  not  dare  to  go  farther  for  fear 
of  missing  you.  Finally,  when  it  was  half  after 
midnight,  when  omnibuses  have  ceased  to  run,  I 
came  home  so  that  my  sister  should  not  be  anxious. 

My  heart  was  heavy,  Monsieur  Herve,  and  I  as- 
sure you  that  once  in  bed  I  did  not  sleep  much  and 
that  I  wept  a  great  deal.  In  vain  did  I  reason  with 
myself:  He  has  been  prevented  by  his  family — 
business;  he  could  not  warn  me,  since  he  does  not 
know  my  address.  I  was  a  little  ashamed  to  have 
been  alone  at  the  rendezvous.  I  thought:  If  he 
wanted  to  see  me  very  much  he  could  have  found 


no  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

some  means  to  join  me.  One  may  be  good;  one 
sees  well  how  men  are  when  they  are  very  much  in- 
terested in  a  woman.  Then  I  was  unhappy  because 
I  did  not  know  how  we  could  find  each  other  again. 
I  had  not  given  my  address ;  I  knew  your  name  and 
your  club,  but  I  never  should  have  dared  to  write 
to  you. 

After  much  thought,  I  surmised  that  if  you 
cared  a  little  for  me  you  would  manage  to  find  me, 
since  you  knew  where  my  work  is  and  at  what  hour 
I  go  out. 

For  many  weeks,  Monsieur  Herve,  I  have  gone  to 
your  house,  watching  for  your  coming,  and  I  went 
up  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  slowly.  I  have  gone  over  the 
way  we  walked  together  carefully.  Never  have  I 
found  you.  You  were  no  longer  thinking  about 
me.  I  had  only  to  forget  you,  n'est-ce  pas?  That's 
what  I  said  to  myself — but  I  could  not!  The 
more  the  time  went  on  the  more  I  thought  about 
you  and  the  more  I  was  unhappy. 

The  first  evening  I  had  thought  you  were  charm- 
ing and  I  had  been  happy  when  you  kissed  me  un- 
der the  porte-cochere.  Now  because  I  desired  so 
much  to  see  you  without  being  able  to  succeed  I 
had  such  need  to  see  you,  that  I  understood  quite 
well  I  loved  you ! 

Do  not  laugh,  Monsieur  Herve;  it  would  be 
wrong.  In  your  world  people  are  distracted  by  so 


LES  YEUX  in 

much  amusement  that  they  have  no  time  to  listen  to 
their  heart !  As  for  us,  we  have  only  the  atelier  and 
a  home,  which  is  not  always  a  happy  one.  If  now 
and  then  we  go  to  the  theatre  it's  a  great  event. 
Then  during  the  day,  while  we  try  on  chemisettes 
and  manteaux,  or  at  night  in  bed,  when  sleep  does 
not  come,  there  is  plenty  of  time  to  be  unhappy 
thinking  about  a  man.  I  have  thought  about  you 
so  much  that  I  have  lost  all  taste  for  life.  Before 
knowing  you  I  was  cheerful.  I  was  content  with 
my  luck,  had  confidence  in  the  future  without  quite 
knowing  why.  Now  I  desire  nothing,  no  longer 
have  any  appetite  and  cannot  sleep. 

Would  you  believe  that  the  last  two  weeks  of 
June  I  have  waited  for  you  every  evening  on  the 
sidewalk  facing  your  club  ?  I  have  seen  you  eight 
times,  Monsieur  Herve.  Never  have  I  been  able  to 
speak  to  you;  very  seldom  are  you  alone,  or  you 
would  enter  your  carriage  immediately.  Then  I 
trembled  so  much  that  I  would  not  have  been  able, 
I  believe,  to  walk  or  talk. 

Toward  the  end  of  June  you  left  for  the  country. 
I  saw  a  notice  of  it  in  the  Gaulois,  which  they  take 
at  the  atelier.  "M.  le  Ficomte  Herve  de  Laver- 
riere,  au  Chateau  d'Estussan  (Fendee}."  I  was 
more  quiet  during  your  absence,  imagine !  I  knew 
you  were  not  in  Paris  and  there  were  no  means  of 
seeing  you.  I  said  to  myself:  He  will  come  back 


ii2  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

in  the  autumn.  Both  of  us  are  not  old;  it  would  be 
strange  if  we  should  never  meet  again.  And  I  was 
right,  because  I  met  you  the  day  after  your  return 
to  Paris.  I  will  tell  you  how.  You  must  not  be 
angry  with  me,  Monsieur  Herve,  because  I  am  so 
unhappy. 

The  newspaper  had  also  told  me  that  you  were 
back  in  Paris  with  many  other  people  who  have 
chateaux. 

About  half-past  nine  I  waited  for  you  again  op- 
posite your  club.  There  is  a  fate  against  us  surely, 
because  I  had  been  there  but  three  minutes  when  a 
private  carriage  stopped  before  the  club.  There 
was  a  lady  in  the  carriage.  A  little  chasseur  came 
immediately  to  her  and  went  in  again  to  the  club. 
It  must  not  hurt  you,  Monsieur  Herve,  if  I  tell 
you  that  I  did  not  think  this  lady  very  pretty  or 
very  young,  and  that  her  gown  is  not  one  of  those 
we  make  for  women  comme  il  faut.  Finally  you 
came  to  her;  before  entering  the  carriage  you  said 
to  the  coachman:  "Rue  de  la  Terrace!"  It  went 
through  to  my  heart!  Truly  you  had  told  me:  "I 
have  an  apartment  there  I  only  use  for  rendez- 
vous!" Then  I  knew.  Stupid!  Until  that  even- 
ing I  had  not  been  jealous.  I  do  not  know  why. 
I  should  have  suspected  that  you  were  not  a  saint. 
But  to  have  seen  the  person  and  to  know  the  place ! 
Oh !  it  did  hurt  me,  it  did  hurt  me !  I  do  not  know 


LES  YEUX  113 

how  I  got  back  to  the  house.  I  went  to  bed  im- 
mediately. Did  I  take  cold  or  was  it  the  shock? 
I  was  taken  ill  that  night  with  fever,  then  my 
throat,  and  I  coughed  so  much  that  I  have  been 
in  bed  a  whole  month.  I  have  not  been  up  since 
and  I  fear  never  will  again. 

You  understand,  indeed,  that  I  do  not  accuse  you 
of  my  illness.  I  have  never  had  a  very  strong  con- 
stitution. Every  winter  I  cough  a  great  deal,  and 
what  is  happening  now  would  probably  have  hap- 
pened some  day  or  other.  It  has  only  come  a  little 
faster  because  of  you,  although  without  any  wish 
of  yours.  It  is  not  very  cheerful,  n'est-ce  pas?  to 
go  at  twenty  without  having  had  much  happiness. 
I  should  like  to  ask  you  something  which  would 
give  me  great  pleasure  and  will  cost  you  very  little 
trouble.  It  would  be  to  come  to  me  to  say  good- 
by,  since  I  cannot  go  to  you.  Oh,  there  will  be 
no  trouble  or  difficulty;  you  will  speak  to  no  one 
but  me.  Three  floors  up,  number  fifteen,  Rue 
Montorgueil.  Ring  and  ask  for  Mile.  Antoinette 
Legrand  (of  my  sister,  who  will  open  the  door  to 
you).  She  will  leave  us  alone.  I  have  changed 
a  great  deal.  I  am  very  thin,  but  my  face  is 
still  mignonne,  almost  as  it  used  to  be,  it  seems  to 
me.  You  will  talk  to  me ;  I  shall  look  at  you,  shall 
hear  your  voice.  It  seems  that  I  shall  go  happier 
if  you  will  allow  me  to  kiss  your  eyes." 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO? 
(La  Question  du  Lit) 

Madame  Dudozac  to  Madame  Anquetin 
From  the  Chateau  of  Serbat: 

MY  DEAR  OLD  FRIEND — 

I  come  to  you  as  I  so  often  have  before  because 
you  are  the  only  one  who  can  help  me  in  this 
trouble.  Nothing  threatens  my  husband  or  myself, 
but  I  desire  to  talk  to  you  about  him.  You  know 
that  Maurice  and  I  are  quite  congenial,  although 
our  life  has  ceased  to  be  a  perpetual  honeymoon. 
You  must  remember  that  three  years  have  elapsed 
since  we  returned  from  our  wedding  trip.  How- 
ever, our  love  has  behaved  itself  like  a  good  legiti- 
mate love,  approved  by  civil  and  religious  authori- 
ties. It  has  lasted  the  usual  time,  that  is  to  say, 
from  the  night  of  the  wedding  to  the  night  of  our 
home-coming.  Then  Maurice  and  I  agreed  to  put 
our  love  away  in  a  jewel  case — if  I  may  so  say — 
and  from  time  to  time  we  bring  it  out  like  a  price- 
less gem,  polish  it  a  little  to  ascertain  whether  it 
is  still  in  good  condition  and,  when  need  be,  wear 
it  for  a  few  moments.  Then  it  is  stowed  away 
again  until  the  next  occasion  calls  for  it. 

114 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  115 

Need  I  add  that  both  Maurice  and  I  enjoy  the 
inestimable  delight  of  separate  beds?  We  each 
have  our  bedroom,  dressing-room  and  bath.  Mau- 
rice said  very  judiciously  once:  "It  would  be  a 
pity  to  crowd  ourselves  into  one  room  when  your 
father  has  spent  eight  hundred  thousand  francs  in 
building  this  mansion."  Therefore,  for  the  last 
two  years  and  a  half  I  have  lived  very  peacefully, 
resuming  all  the  good  habits  of  my  girlhood. 

I  have  had  the  opportunity  to  roam  about  in  my 
night  robe  until  a  late  hour,  arranging  my  own  pet 
belongings,  reading  over  old  letters,  sometimes 
writing,  or  when  in  bed  turning  over  the  pages  of 
a  favorite  novel  until  ready  to  sleep.  The  light 
out,  I  would  really  begin  to  appreciate  the  luxury 
of  being  alone,  being  able  to  lie  lengthwise,  cross- 
wise, curled  up,  or  in  any  position  I  chose  without 
fear  of  disturbing  any  one.  It  was  gloriously  de- 
lightful, and  truly,  the  best  of  the  twenty-four 
hours  began  for  me  after  I  had  locked  my  bed- 
room door. 

But  you  will  ask,  dear  old  friend,  "What  was 
Maurice  doing  meanwhile?"  Well,  dear,  I  con- 
fess that  never  worried  me,  and  I  frankly  acknowl- 
edge that  it  should  have.  It  ought  to  have  oc- 
curred to  me  that  men  are  differently  constituted; 
that  they  take  a  keen  pleasure  in  what,  let  us  say, 
calls  forth  within  us  only  a  slight  nervous  irrita- 


n6  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

tion ;  that  the  husband  who  so  easily  resigns  himself 
to  sleeping  alone  may  take  a  siesta  during  the  day 
somewhere  else.  It  really  was  very  thoughtless  of 
me  to  show  such  indifference. 

If  Maurice  deceived  me  it  was  very  discreetly 
done,  without  scandal  and  without  financial  ex- 
travagance. He  never  left  me  alone  for  dinner; 
never  pleaded  extraordinary  business  away  from 
home,  such  as  many  of  my  friends  have  to  put  up 
with.  In  short,  he  was  always  perfect — a  true  gen- 
tleman. If  Maurice  deceived  me  he  did  it  as  a 
good  husband  might. 

This  conjugal  happiness  would  still  be  lasting 
if  our  Aunt  Destorbes  had  not  decided  to  die  sud- 
denly in  her  castle  of  Serbat,  near  Moncrabeau. 

You  do  not  know  Moncrabeau,  the  castle  of  Ser- 
bat, or  our  aunt  ? 

Following  the  death  of  her  husband  fifteen  years 
ago  this  old  aunt  died  suddenly  last  March,  after 
giving  no  sign  of  life  to  any  one,  except  her  maid, 
who  was  as  old  and  eccentric  as  herself.  Much 
to  our  surprise  we  inherited  the  chateau  of  Serbat, 
near  Moncrabeau.  This  name,  which  really  sug- 
gests nothing  poetical,  was,  however,  sufficient  to 
electrify  Maurice.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  first 
five  or  six  years  of  his  precious  existence  were  spent 
there,  but  he  had  never  returned  and  could  not 
without  emotion  recall  the  place  where  he  had 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  117 

played,  fought  and  got  into  all  sorts  of  mischiefs 
with  the  little  Gascons  of  his  age. 

It  was  then  agreed  that  the  following  summer 
we  should  spend  a  month  in  the  castle  which  we 
owed  to  the  departure  of  our  aunt  to  the  unknown. 

Ah,  what  a  beautiful  manor,  my  dear  old 
friend !  I  know  now  how  beautiful ;  I  am  living  in 
it  and  would  much  rather  be  somewhere  else.  The 
country  is  delightful.  The  castle  is  charming,  with 
its  three  low,  square  towers  surmounted  by  a  py- 
ramidal roof  of  red  tiles,  and  round  it,  like  a  blue 
belt,  is  a  dense  oak  grove.  Oh,  dear,  the  inside ! 
the  rooms !  Our  aunt  must  not  have  been  at  all 
acquainted  with  modern  comfort.  Should  the 
drawing-room  wall-paper  be  mouldy,  should  the 
dining-room  ceiling  fall  over  our  heads,  that  would 
not  matter!  But  would  you  believe  it,  there  was 
one,  and  only  one,  habitable  bedroom,  that  being 
the  room  of  the  dead  woman  (not  very  cheerful, 
is  it?) — and  when  I  say  habitable  I  mean  it  con- 
tained a  bed,  standing  on  four  legs,  and  a  wash- 
stand. 

Dressing-rooms  were  unknown  to  the  castle. 
One  of  the  rooms  I  noticed  was  furnished  with 
only  a  chair  and  a  candlestick. 

The  castle  was  so  utterly  devoid  of  any  kind  of 
furniture  that  after  our  first  tour  through  our 
newly  acquired  property  Maurice  and  I  were 


n8  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

seized  with  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  laughter.  It 
was  about  ten  o'clock.  The  day  had  been  spent 
travelling  and  we  were  tired,  and  needed  a  place  to 
rest. 

"Where  will  you  sleep,  my  dear?"  I  said  to 
Maurice. 

"I  saw  a  large  arm-chair  in  the  small  drawing- 
room,"  he  replied  pitifully.  "I'll  have  it  brought 
up." 

It  was  then  I  gave  way  to  a  feeling  of  pity, 
which  I  have  ever  since  regretted. 

"Mon  Dieu !"  I  said,  smiling,  "if  you  are  willing 
to  share  my  bed." 

To-morrow,  I  thought,  another  bed  will  be  put 
up  in  another  room. 

The  night  passed  without  incident.  We  were 
too  tired  to  think  of  anything  but  sleep. 

Next  day,  thanks  to  my  care,  Maurice's  room 
was  ready,  but  when  the  time  came  to  retire  he 
noticed  he  had  no  pillows.  It  seems  it  is  not  cus- 
tomary in  this  part  of  the  country  to  possess  such 
luxuries. 

"Ma  foil  my  dear,  I  shall  again  ask  for  your 
hospitality  to-night."  I  was  willing,  but  being 
more  rested  than  the  day  before,  I  fell  asleep  only 
toward  morning.  This  long  body  beside  me  dis- 
turbed me,  made  me  restless,  and  I  would  awaken 
suddenly  after  a  few  moments  of  fitful  slumber. 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  119 

Fortunately,  I  thought  while  dressing  the  next 
morning,  it  will  be  the  last  time.  There  has  been 
no  last  time  since  this  unfortunate  move.  Maurice 
enjoys  sleeping  in  my  bed.  He  positively  refuses 
to  leave  it.  When  I  say  "sleeping"  it  is  not  figur- 
atively speaking.  He  occupies  my  bed  to  sleep — 
he  says  so,  the  wretch. 

"  'Tis  extraordinary  how  well  I  sleep  beside  you, 
my  dear!  We  will  have  to  take  this  habit  back 
with  us  to  Paris,  for  there  my  sleep  is  more  or  less 
disturbed." 

As  for  me,  I  undergo  a  thousand  tortures.  No 
more  hours  of  delightful  idleness  at  night  before 
going  to  bed,  no  more  correspondence.  Not  that 
Maurice  forbids  it,  but  I  like  to  be  alone  to  do 
such  things,  and  two  eyes,  even  though  they  be 
looking  on  indifferently,  disturb  me. 

Furthermore,  I  am  obliged  partly  to  restrain 
myself.  I  say  partly,  because  I  indulge  in  antics 
like  a  frog  in  a  frying-pan  on  my  own  side  of  the 
bed,  at  times  kicking  Maurice  viciously  to  get  more 
room.  This  has  little  effect  upon  him.  He  scarce- 
ly moves,  murmurs  a  sleepy  "pardon  me"  and 
sleeps  on.  I  have  told  him :  "My  dear,  I  want  my 
bed  to  myself.  I  cannot  sleep  with  any  one." 

"Bah!"  said  he  laughingly,  "you  would  not 
sleep  any  better  if  you  were  alone.  The  bed  is 
wide  and  I  never  stir."  I  told  him  he  snored  (that 


120  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

is  a  story).  "Oh,  no!"  he  replied  with  a  conceited 
laugh.  "If  I  snored  I  would  have  been  told  so 
before." 

What  am  I  to  do,  my  trustworthy  and  resource- 
ful friend?  You  cannot  imagine  how  impatient 
this  offensive  return  of  Maurice  makes  me — take 
this  word  offensive  in  its  mildest  meaning.  My 
virtue,  happily,  is  still  irreproachable,  and  no  later 
than  yesterday  I  nipped  in  the  bud  his  attempt  at 
love-making. 

You  see  I  am  getting  very  cross  and  irritable.  1 
am  sure  to  do  something  I'll  be  sorry  for.  Do  ad- 
vise me.  Find  the  means  by  which  I'll  regain  my 
freedom.  I  surely  cannot  ask  for  a  divorce  simply 
because  my  husband  insists  upon  sharing  my  couch. 

II 

Madame  Anquelm  to  Madame  Duclozac 

From  Paris: 

It  is  very  nice  of  you,  little  one,  to  think  of  your 
old  friend  in  your  hour  of  need,  and  to  run  breath- 
lessly to  shelter  your  anxiety  under  the  wings  of  my 
experience !  Oh,  a  great,  very  great  experience ! 
To  think  that  I  have  seen  you  making  mud  pies 
when  I  was  already  hors  de  cause,  giving  advice 
to  young  women,  now  almost  old.  Life  flies  by 
like  a  cloud  over  the  sea.  Take  care,  to-morrow 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  121 

the  time  will  be  gone  and  with  it  beauty,  when  no 
one,  not  even  your  husband,  to  whom  at  present 
you  begrudge  a  share  of  your  bed,  will  want  to  lie 
in  it.  The  indifference  to  love  you  show  so  clearly 
in  your  letter  makes  me  deeply  sorry. 

What!  Only  twenty-five  and  you  say  all  you 
find  in  love  is  only  a  few  seconds  of  nervous  irrita- 
tion? You  are  very  frigid,  my  child,  or  else  M. 
Duclozac  is  very  awkward.  Take  your  spite  out 
on  him,  but  do  not  slander  love,  of  which  you  know 
nothing.  Que  dlable! 

My  amorous  reminiscences  are  very,  very  old; 
still  I  know  my  temperament  was  different  from 
yours. 

I  understood  pretty  well  the  feelings  that  sur- 
prise you  and  I  had  no  false  modesty  in  showing 
them.  To  say  that  M.  Anquetin  never  complained 
of  them  would  be  to  do  him  an  honor  his  memory 
does  not  deserve.  He  had  married  me  for  my 
money,  which  he  squandered  in  gambling.  I 
should  have  been  foolish  to  disdain  compensations. 
I  am  therefore  pretty  well  informed  on  the  funda- 
mental question  of  conjugal  love. 

Now  listen,  and  take  heed,  my  child! 

First  of  all,  I  agree  with  you.  There  is  no  use 
whatever  in  being  two  in  a  bed  just  to  sleep.  It 
would  be  more  unreasonable  to  have  one  plate  only 
for  two  to  eat  from  and  one  chair  only  for  two  to 


122  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

sit  at  table.  Therefore,  your  husband  is  wrong  in 
inflicting  upon  you  his  sleeping  personality.  You 
must  drive  him  away. 

Where  is  the  wife,  unfortunately  married,  who 
has  not  had,  at  least  once  in  her  lifetime,  to  under- 
take such  a  campaign?  You  are  not  the  only  one. 
All  useless  husbands  have  at  times  the  monomania 
to  encumber  their  wife's  bed.  Even  I  had  to  strug- 
gle for  six  months  to  reconquer  mine  from  a  hus- 
band who,  like  yours,  got  into  his  head  the  desire 
to  occupy  it  platonically. 

I  tried  different  means  successively.  The  first 
was  to  make  my  presence  obnoxious  to  him.  I 
would  get  up  twenty  times  during  the  night,  noisily 
light  the  lamp,  knock  against  the  furniture,  make 
noise  enough  to  awaken  a  dormouse  in  the  dead  of 
winter.  At  first  the  results  were  successful.  Al- 
though my  husband  did  not  leave  the  bed,  he  slept 
very  badly.  True,  I  slept  still  worse.  Then  hap- 
pened what  I  should  have  foreseen.  Fatigue 
brought  failure.  My  husband,  however,  slept  in 
spite  of  the  noise  and  I  lost  all  inclination  to  move 
for  need  of  sleep. 

Then  I  tried  perfumes.  He  loathed  them.  I 
literally  soaked  the  sheets  with  all  sorts  of  unpleas- 
ant odors,  such  as  musk,  peau  d'Espagne,  etc.  My 
husband  lost  his  temper,  swore  and  fell  asleep.  I 
had  to  give  up  such  a  manner  of  dispensing  hos- 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  123 

pitality,  for  I  gained  nothing  but  frightful  head- 
aches. 

Less  fortunate  than  yourself,  I  had  no  old  friend 
to  whom  I  could  turn  for  advice,  but  I  had  a  few 
young  ones  of  my  own  age. 

One  day  when  I  was  complaining  one  of  them 
exclaimed : 

"I  wish  I  were  in  your  place." 

"Why,  mon  Diet*/" 

"Because  my  husband  does  not  share  my  bed 
very  often." 

"For  what  reason?" 

"//  trouvait  cela  trop  fatigant,"  she  replied, 
dropping  her  eyes  blushingly. 

My  friend  was  a  woman  whom  I  should  never 
have  suspected  of  possessing  such  a  temperament. 
Her  disclosure  suggested  something  to  me.  I  put 
it  into  practice.  My  whole  conjugal  tactics  were 
changed.  I  suppressed  all  the  unpleasantness  I 
had  introduced.  I  became  charming,  lovable,  de- 
sirable. True,  my  husband  was  not  very  passion- 
ate, but  he  was  a  man  for  all  that.  The  unex- 
pectedness of  my  return  flattered  his  vanity.  He 
gathered  his  courage,  which  lasted  four  nights. 
The  fifth  night  he  pleaded  a  headache,  the  very 
same  headaches  we  make  use  of  on  occasions,  kissed 
me  on  the  forehead  and  said:  "My  dear,  if  you'll 
allow  me  I'll  leave  you  alone  to-night."  As  long 


124  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

as  he  lived,  since  that  time,  I  enjoyed  full  posses- 
sion of  my  sleeping  quarters.  That  is  the  way  I 
did  it,  belle  cherie — try  it  and  see  for  yourself. 
It  is  distasteful?  Well,  courage  is  needed. 

However,  a  woman  of  imagination  need  only 
shut  her  eyes.  The  illusion  is  not  to  be  despised. 
If,  after  all,  your  heart  is  so  devoid  of  everything 
that  even  illusion  has  no  place  in  it,  why,  mentally 
recite,  like  another  friend  of  mine,  the  long  list  of 
the  kings  of  France  from  Pharamond  to  Louis- 
Philippe  with  their  dates. 

Adieu !    Let  me  know  the  results. 

Ill 

Madame  Duclozac  to  Madame  Anquetin. 

Chateau  of  Serb  at: 

What  have  you  done,  dear  friend,  and  what 
have  you  advised  me  to  do !  Yours  was  a  nice 
recipe,  indeed!  I  followed  your  directions  con- 
scientiously. It  is  now  the  eighth  day  of  the  new 
regime  and  Monsieur  Duclozac  is  more  attached 
than  ever  to  my  bed.  You  surely  did  not  expect 
such  results,  did  you?  Are  you  sorry?  You 
needn't  be.  I  bear  you  no  grudge.  You  are  a 
dear,  and  I  am  madly  in  love  with  you  and  your 
advice.  Do  you  understand?  No?  I  am  rather  ex- 
cited just  now,  and  oh,  so  happy  in  my  excitement. 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  125 

Well,  as  soon  as  your  letter  came  I  became  filled 
with  admiration  for  the  ingenuity  of  the  method. 
It  was,  if  I  may  say  so,  treating  the  disease  by 
homeopathy,  for  my  bed,  the  cause  of  the  trouble, 
was  going  to  furnish  me  the  remedy.  My  own 
husband  was  to  be  banished,  beating  a  retreat,  cov- 
ered with  ridicule  in  the  bargain ! 

I  decided  to  open  fire  that  very  evening.  To  say 
that  I  was  looking  forward  to  the  campaign  with 
pleasure  would  be  to  exaggerate  my  feelings,  but 
there  is  always  a  certain  satisfaction  to  one's  pride 
in  following  a  treatment  however  severe.  Then  the 
thought  of  the  grave  matters  at  stake  upheld  me, 
— freedom  at  night,  the  peaceful  possession  of  my 
own  room  and  a  bed  all  to  myself. 

I  carefully  prepared  the  campaign  and  made 
ready  to  charm  my  own  husband.  I  still  possess 
from  my  wedding  trousseau  a  certain  nocturnal 
paraphernalia  which  is  quite  suggestive,  although 
it  was  worn  under  legitimate  auspices.  I  was  thus 
clothed  (like  Esther  appearing  before  King  Ahas- 
uerus)  when  Monsieur  Duclozac  found  me  at  bed- 
time. Nanon,  the  cook,  and  I  had  seen  carefully 
to  the  menu  for  dinner  and  he  felt  happy. 

I  did  not  have  to  wait  long  for  developments. 
Like  a  good  general  I  feigned  a  retreat, — the 
enemy  advanced;  the  battle  began. 

After  several  skirmishes  both  parties  were  left 


126  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

on  the  battlefield.  It  was  difficult  to  say  who  was 
conquered  or  conqueror. 

The  following  day  did  not  pass  as  smoothly  as 
usual.  I  had  resumed  toward  my  husband  an  air 
of  disagreeable  coldness,  which  is  generally  affected 
between  man  and  wife,  while  I  read  in  his  eyes  a 
blending  of  satisfaction  and  irony  that  I  could 
hardly  endure.  It  enraged  me  so  I  wished  to  beat 
him.  You  just  wait,  I  thought,  we'll  see  shortly 
whether  you  have  cause  to  be  so  triumphant.  My 
mind  was  made  up.  It  is  said  that  a  thing  once 
done  is  easier  to  do  a  second  time.  I  was  certain 
now  to  be  able  to  overcome  my  repugnance  and 
come  through  triumphant  next  time.  To  tell  you 
the  whole  truth  it  was  easier  to  do  the  first  time 
than  I  had  ever  thought. 

Nevertheless,  to  ease  my  mind  I  schooled  my- 
self. To-night,  I  thought,  will  probably  be  as  last 
night,  and  it  will  be  very  unpleasant.  I  will  divert 
myself  by  mentally  reciting  the  list  of  the  French 
kings  with  their  dates,  as  my  good  friend  Anquetin 
advised.  My  self-respect  being  thus  quieted,  I 
waited  for  night  to  come. 

When  we  were  alone  M.  Duclozac  showed  me 
at  once  he  had  not  forgotten  what  had  happened 
the  night  before.  The  kings  of  France?  What 
of  them?  Well,  the  kings  of  France — I  did  not 
get  a  chance  to  go  further  than  Merovee. 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  127 

No  matter,  I  thought,  as  I  rested  in  Maurice's 
arms  (which  is  part  of  the  program,  n'est-ce  pas?} , 
no  matter.  Did  not  my  good  friend  say  it  took  her 
a  whole  week  to  get  rid  of  her  husband?  A  few 
more  sorties  and  then  I  am  saved — saved! 

A  few  more  battles  ? 

There  were  many  more. 

Your  husband,  dear  friend,  must  not  have  felt 
about  it  as  mine  does.  What  of  the  French  kings? 
Ahem !  They  went  lamely  on  as  best  they  might. 
Good  will  was  not  lacking  to  be  sure,  but  memory 
sometimes  played  false.  One  king  was  always  sure 
to  escape.  Now  a  Merovingian,  now  a  Valois, 
now  a  Bourbon,  according  to  early  or  late  failure 
of  my  memory.  Once  I  had  thought  I  had  almost 
succeeded  in  reaching  Napoleon — then  toward 
morning,  when  I  thought  I  would  surely  reach  the 
end  I  missed  Louis-Philippe. 

The  constant  call  upon  my  memory  brought 
great  fatigue.  By  the  middle  of  the  week  I  hardly 
knew  myself.  Victory  ?  A  fine  victory,  indeed !  I 
was  losing  all  control  over  myself.  Not  only  my 
husband  was  not  driven  away,  but  I  no  longer 
knew  whether  I  wanted  him  to  go  or  not.  Why 
was  I  so  changed?  I  was  almost  willing  to 
acknowledge  defeat.  I  was  no  longer  the  same 
indifferent  little  woman  who  had  truthfully  said 
that  love  amounted  to  nothing  but  a  few  seconds 


128  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

of  nervous  irritation.  What  had  come  over  me? 
Here  I  was  after  three  years  of  married  life  taking 
a  new  wedding  trip,  and  although  it  did  not  ex- 
tend farther  than  my  own  room,  it  certainly  was  in 
a  great  many  respects  much  more  interesting. 

Justice  must  be  done  to  Monsieur  Duclozac,  as 
he  behaved  throughout  like  a  perfect  gentleman. 
He  did  not  gloat  over  his  triumph,  nor  did  he  try 
to  humiliate  me  in  any  way. 

When  we  dared  talk  about  what  was  changing 
our  attitudes  toward  each  other  he  showed  himself 
loving  and  tender,  avowing  himself  my  most  de- 
voted lover. 

"I  was  far  from  suspecting  I  possessed  such  a 
treasure,"  said  he.  "See  how  good  this  change  has 
been  for  you.  It  has  revealed  you  to  me,  and  per- 
haps to  yourself." 

I  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  "perhaps." 

"Mow  Dieu,  my  dear,  for  the  last  three  years  I 
have  been  a  most  indifferent  husband.  I  know  I 
can  trust  you,  and  my  honor  is  perfectly  safe  in 
your  hands — but  no  one  is  master  of  one's5 
thoughts,  and  I  made  no  attempt  to  keep  yours." 
"Especially,"  he  said,  laughing,  "when  my  dear 
wife  posesses  a  temperament  I  was  far  from  sus- 
pecting." 

"Alas,"  I  stammered,  "neither  did  I." 

"So  far  it  proves  nothing.     You  have  shown 


ONE  ROOM  OR  TWO?  129 

more  enjoyment  than  experience.  Now,  will  you 
explain  why  the  other  night  when  I  was  trying  my 
very  best  to  make  you  think  of  me — you  called 
'Louis'  three  times — languidly  but  distinctly?  My 
name  has  been  Maurice  ever  since  I  was  born." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  before 
I  was  seized  with  uncontrollable  laughter.  I  threw 
myself  on  the  sofa,  and  between  what  you  might 
almost  call  convulsions  I  said,  "Why,  dear,  it  was 
—it  was  Louis — it  was  Louis  XIV."  (He  verily 
believed  for  a  moment  I  had  lost  my  mind  and  it 
was  only  a  long  time  afterward  that  he  really  un- 
derstood.) 

There,  now,  belle  amie,  I  kiss  your  hands.  I  am 
very  grateful  to  you  for  having  taught  me  so 
clever  a  method  of  driving  away  my  husband. 
Bear  me  no  grudge  and  do  not  say,  "The  little 
minx."  You  know  better  than  any  one  that  the 
heart  of  a  woman  is  even  to  herself  a  mystery. 


A  NOVEL  OF  PASSION 
(Un  Roman  passionnel) 

Chateau  des  Roches,  in  Touraine,  toward  the 
end  of  the  holidays,  in  the  room  of  Mademoiselle 
Julie  de  Lescourtois.  Julie  is  sixteen,  graceful  and 
slender,  and  has  large  innocent  eyes.  She  is  ready 
for  bed,  and  looks  very  pretty  with  her  blond  hair 
braided  like  a  little  girl.  Instead  of  going  to  bed 
like  a  good  child,  in  a  small  Louis  XVI  bed  of 
white  lacquer  with  blue  mouldings,  whose  pure 
white  sheets  are  open  in  a  triangle,  she  has  put  on 
a  delicious  mauve  peignoir  over  her  nightgown. 
She  comes  near  the  door  which  communicates  with 
the  next  room,  opens  it  and  says: 

"Are  you  coming,  Jeanne?" 
"Yes,  darling." 

And  the  next  instant  there  is  another  girl  in  a 
mauve  dressing  gown  of  the  same  age  and  the 
same  crape  in  Julie's  room.  The  delicate  figure  of 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Aimery  appears,  a  plump 
little  blonde,  the  companion  and  inseparable  friend 
of  Julie,  both  at  the  boarding  school  of  Avenue 
Hoche,  and  during  vacation. 

With  mysterious  ways  and  great  seriousness 
130 


A  NOVEL  OF  PASSION  131 

both  go  to  the  writing-table,  which  is  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room.  Mademoiselle  Julie  opens  a 
large  book  of  manuscript  which  is  covered  with 
white  paper.  On  the  first  page  one  can  read  these 
words: 

DESABUSEE 

A  Great  Novel  of  Passion 

by 
Enguerrand  De  Casteljaloux 

Mademoiselle  de  Lescourtois  turns  over  the 
pages  of  the  manuscript.  Her  friend,  Jeanne,  gazes 
at  her  with  admiration.  This  faithful  friend  is  the 
only  one  who  knows  the  great  secret.  Enguerrand 
de  Casteljaloux  has  blonde  hair  down  her  back,  a 
budding  breast,  and  wears  a  mauve  dressing  gown. 
The  author  of  "Desabusee"  is  no  other  than  Julie 
herself,  and  this  great  passionate  talet  already  un- 
folded to  page  one  hundred  and  three,  is  the  myste- 
rious fruit  of  the  vacation.  Under  the  pretext  of 
writing  letters  or  studying  lessons,  Julie  shuts  her- 
self in  her  room  in  tete-a-tete  with  the  precious- 
manuscript,  and  in  the  evening,  when  everybody 
in  the  castle  has  retired  and  all  the  doors  are  safely 
shut,  she  reads  to  Jeanne  Aimery  the  pages  com- 
posed during  the  day. 

Jeanne  asks: 

"Have  you  written  the  great  scene?" 


132  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

"Yes,"  answers  Julie. 

"Up  to  the  moment  when ?" 

"Yes,  listen." 

The  two  friends  sit  down. 

Julie  coughs  lightly  and  reads. 

Captain  Maxime  did  not  deceive  himself.  The 
impression  he  had  produced  on  Marguerite — 

JEANNE  (interrupting}.   Made. 

JULIE.  What?  made?  (Understanding}  Ah, 
you're  right.  (She  corrects) — he  had  made  on 
Marguerite  de  Viran  was  awful.  It  had  been 
enough  for  her  to  see  him  once. 

JEANNE  (interrupting  again} .  To  see  him  once? 

JULIE  (vexed}.  Well,  you  know:  don't  inter- 
rupt me  like  that  all  the  time  or  I  will  not  read. 
It  is  tiresome,  after  all,  this  pose  for  grammatical 
knowledge. 

JEANNE  (timidly}.  But  you  can't  leave  such 
mistakes. 

JULIE.  Such  mistakes!  To  begin  with,  those 
are  not  mistakes.  They  are  corrected  by  the  edi- 
tors. Besides,  there  are  some  in  every  book — there 
are  some  (she  thinks)  in  Boileau,  in  Mademoiselle 
Zenai'de  Fleuriot — everywhere. 

JEANNE.    It  is  true,  after  all.    Go  on. 

JULIE  (reading}.  For  her  to  see  him  once  was 
to  love  him.  She  went  back  to  her  mother's  man- 
sion in  a  state  impossible  to  describe.  How  hand- 


A  NOVEL  OF  PASSION  133 

some  he  is !  she  thought.  How  beautifully  his  uni- 
form shows  his  figure !  What  pretty  hands  he  has ! 
What  a  superb  mustache,  and  so  proudly  turned 
up !  Courage  can  be  read  in  burning  letters  on  his 
patibulary  countenance. 

JEANNE.  What  does  that  word  patibulary 
mean? 

JULIE.  Why,  don't  you  know?  It  is  said  about 
people  who  look  awful — brigands. 

JEANNE  (convinced).  Ah! 

JULIE  (reading).  Disturbed  by  these  thoughts, 
she  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  her  crucifix,  and 
asked  the  Lord  to  help  her  marry  the  captain. 
Otherwise,  she  felt  herself  capable  of  the  greatest 
folly,  such  as  to  run  away.  ( To  Jeanne)  It  is  good, 
don't  you  think  so? 

JEANNE.  It  is  terrible !  It  will  be  a  novel  im- 
possible to  leave  in  everybody's  hands. 

JULIE  (proudly).  Oh,  no  indeed!  (Reading) 
Night  had  come;  the  whole  valley  of  the  Loiret 
was  covered  by  its  sombre  veil.  No  star  shone  in 
the  firmament.  The  snow  had  spread  its  cold 
shroud  over  the  horizon.  Marguerite  left  her 
room.  The  wind  was  raging  through  the  halls  of 
the  chateau. 

JEANNE  (a  little  pale).  I  am  afraid,  Julie. 
Why  do  you  write  things  like  that?  (She  brings 
her  chair  nearer  Julie's.) 


i34  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

JULIE  (continuing).  Was  raging  through  the 
halls  of  the  chateau.  Why  did  Marguerite  feel 
herself  forced  to  leave  her  room  and  go  out  on  the 
terrace  in  such  an  icy  gale?  A  mysterious  force 
drew  her  there.  However,  what  was  Captain 
Maxime  doing? 

JEANNE  (her  voice  changed  by  emotion).  He 
is  there ! 

JULIE.    Where?  There! 

JEANNE.  In  the  park  of  the  castle !  I  am  sure 
of  it.  Go  on  quickly.  Heavens,  how  beautiful  it 
is! 

JULIE  (reading).  The  captain,  who  also  had 
been  impelled  by  a  mysterious  force  toward  this 
young  girl  on  whom  he  had  made  (she  hesitates  a 
moment  )  such  an  impression,  about  eleven  o'clock 
at  night  had  his  horse,  Artaban,  saddled,  and  left 
at  great  speed  for  the  castle.  He  found  the  door 
of  the  castle  locked.  (Julie  stops  to  enjoy  the  ef- 
feet.) 

JEANNE.  What  is  he  going  to  do  ? 

JULIE  (taking  up  her  reading).  Maxime  came 
down  from  his  horse  and  knocked  with  the  butt 
end  of  his  revolver  on  the  keeper's  door.  The 
latter  opened,  frightened.  "Listen,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. "If  you  say  a  word  I  will  blow  your  brains 
out  with  this  revolver.  If  you  let  me  go  in,  here 
are  one  hundred  thousand  francs  in  bills." 


A  NOVEL  OF  PASSION  135 

JEANNE.  You  ought  to  say  three  hundred 
thousand,  Julie. 

JULIE.    Why? 

JEANNE.  A  hundred  thousand  makes  only 
three  thousand  income — and  the  keeper  is  going  to 
lose  his  position. 

JULIE  (correcting).  "Here  are  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  in  bills!"  The  keeper  accepted 
and  the  captain  remounted  his  horse  and  en- 
tered the  park.  The  light  which  was  shining 
in  the  windows  of  Marguerite's  room —  (To 
Jeanne)  now  I  warn  you,  it  will  be  strong!  Listen 
carefully.  It  is  like  George  Sand,  but  more 
realistic 

JEANNE.    Well,  go  on. 

JULIE  (reading).  Suddenly  Marguerite,  who 
was  leaning  on  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace  which 
overhangs  the  Loiret,  heard  a  horse  swimming  in 
the  river. 

JEANNE.  You  know  the  Loiret  is  not  a  river, 
but  it  doesn't  matter,  go  on. 

JULIE  (reading).  "She,"  cried  Maxime.  She 
had  recognized  and  divined  him  through  the 
shadows  of  the  night.  The  next  moment  he  was  in 
her  arms. 

JEANNE  (timidly).    And  the  horse? 

JULIE.  Wait.  The  captain  had  put  his  horse 
alongside  the  balustrade,  which  overhangs  the 


136  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Loiret.  Standing  in  his  stirrups,  he  just  about 
reached  the  balustrade,  and  could  exchange  with 
Marguerite  passionate  caresses.  (Jeanne  is  hold- 
ing her  breath  with  interest,  and  Julie  continues.) 
She  put  her  beautiful  white,  fresh  arms  around 
him,  and  her  long  hair  covered  him.  Her  large 
blue  eyes  sent  forth  a  burning  languor  and  that 
ardor  which  can  triumph  over  all  efforts  of  will, 
and  all  scruples  of  conscience.  The  captain  steeped 
his  lips  in  the  same  cup. 

JEANNE  (disturbed).   Did  you  do  that? 

JULIE   (embarrassed).    Mais,  oui — Why? 

JEANNE.  Because — I  don't  know.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  read  something  like  that.  Oh,  I've 
got  itl  In  the  red  book  which  you  swiped  from 
the  library  last  vacation. 

JULIE.  Well,  I  will  tell  you.  I  copied  parts  of 
a  phrase  from  that  book,  "Indiana,"  where  Ray- 
mond kisses  the  girl.  Only  I  have  changed  it  a  little. 
There  it  is,  "her  beautiful  cool,  brown  arms  and 
her  great  black  eyes — "  then  the  circumstances  are 
not  the  same.  In  "Indiana"  they  are  both  in  Mad- 
ame Delmare's  room.  In  my  novel,  one  is  on  a 
horse,  the  other  is  on  the  terrace.  It  is  a  new 
situation. 

JEANNE  (convinced).  It  is  true.  Is  the  scene 
finished? 

JULIE.   No,  indeed.    The  end  is  more  exciting. 


A  NOVEL  OF  PASSION  137 

I'll  write  it  to-morrow — this  last  scene  is  not  fin- 
ished. 

JEANNE.    Read  quickly  what  you  have. 

JULIE  (reading).  The  trees  of  the  park  were 
still  blowing  wildly,  and  the  waters  of  the  Loiret, 
which  was  flowing  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace,  shiv- 
ered. Suddenly  two  strokes  were  heard  from 
the  neighboring  steeple — "Two  o'clock,"  cried 
Marguerite.  "I  must  go  back  to  my  little 
room." 

"Farewell,  my  beloved,"  replied  the  captain,  "I 
never  will  forget  the  delicious  hours  I  have  spent 
with  you.  Farewell,  or  rather,  au  revoir,"  and 
stretching  himself  in  his  stirrups,  he  passionately 
kissed  her  lips. 

JEANNE  (scandalized).  Oh 

JULIE  (smiling).    C'est  raide,  n'est  ce  pas? 

JEANNE.    Are  they  going  to  marry? 

JULIE.  No,  she  would  like  to,  but  it  is  the  cap- 
tain who  is  not  willing  to  marry  her,  because  he  is 
in  love  with  an  American  girl. 

JEANNE  (thoughtfully).  How  great  it  is  to  be 
a  man. 

(After  some  time  of  reflection  Julie  shuts  the 
copy  book  which  contains  the  manuscript  and  puts 
it  in  a  drawer  under  lock  and  key.  Slowly  Jeanne 
goes  back  to  her  room.) 

JULIE.    Are  you  going  to  bed? 


i38  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

JEANNE.  Do  you  know,  you  have  a  great  deal 
of  talent  ? 

JULIE.  Truly,  you  believe  that?  Do  you  be- 
lieve it  is  as  good  as  George  Sand? 

JEANNE  (thinking  for  a  moment  to  form  a 
judicious  judgment] .  I  think  it  is  much  more  im- 
proper, but  on  the  whole,  it's  better  done. 

JULIE  (impassionately) .  I  would  like  so  much 
to  have  it  printed,  published  in  a  magazine. 
Would  you  like  that? 

JEANNE.  No,  but  I  should  like  to  be  loved  by 
a  man  like  the  captain.  (  The  two  young  girls  are 
thoughtful  a  few  moments.) 

JULIE.     Good-night,  I  am  going  to  bed. 

JEANNE.    I  am  going  to  say  my  prayers. 

JULIE.  I  have  said  mine.  (  They  kiss  each  other, 
Jeanne  shuts  the  door  behind  her.  Julie  goes  to 
bed.) 


THE  GUEST 
(L' Invite) 

I 

To  Monsieur  I' Abbe  Binet 

Rue  d'Assas,  8,  Paris: 

MY  DEAR  ABBE — 

This  little  note  is  written  hastily  and  confiden- 
tially. I  am,  indeed,  very  happy,  and  my  heart 
cannot  wait  for  the  time  of  our  return  to  Paris  to 
tell  you  the  good  news. 

I  believe  everything  is  now  well,  or  will  soon  be 
so,  and  before  the  end  of  the  winter  my  little  girl, 
Lucie,  will  be  married  most  satisfactorily,  thanks 
to  you. 

I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you,  dear  Abbe,  for 
coming  to  my  help.  I  am  so  inexperienced  and 
live  such  a  solitary  life. 

A  widow  whose  children  are  getting  on  in  years 
soon  realizes  that  a  firmer  and  more  worldly-wise 
authority  than  hers  is  needed  to  guide  their  first 
steps  into  the  world.  I  am  not  half  so  worried 
about  Maurice's  future  as  I  am  about  his  sister's. 

I  was  greatly  in  doubt  as  to  the  success  of  an 
experiment  which  I  dreaded;  but  now  that  our 
139 


i4o  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

plans  have  been  successful  I  owe  you  an  apology 
for  doubting  your  wisdom.  I  needed  all  the  re- 
gard I  have  for  your  opinion  in  order  to  consent 
to  receive  the  young  man  into  our  family. 

Really,  I  never  would  have  admitted  into  our  in- 
timacy during  our  stay  in  the  country  a  young  man 
like  Monsieur  de  Montivry,  of  whom  we  know  so 
little,  if  you  had  not  urged  it  upon  us.  I  feared  his 
stay  would  be  wrongly  interpreted  by  our  neigh- 
bors. Slander  is  not  entirely  excluded  amongst 
country  folks.  Alas ! 

I  said  to  myself,  "This  handsome  young  man 
of  twenty-two  will  not  be  taken  easily  for  a  friend 
of  a  child  like  Maurice,  although  old  for  his  age." 

You  gave  me  confidence.  You  said,  "I'll  take 
the  responsibility."  And  you  were  right.  The 
fact  that  he  came  with  you  to  Beaucourt  prevented 
gossip.  To  see  him  at  my  table,  walking  with  my 
two  children  and  Miss  Jacobson,  was  looked  upon 
as  perfectly  natural.  Every  one  admired  his  digni- 
fied behavior.  He  stayed  here  a  week  and  had 
everybody  devoted  to  him  before  he  left.  He 
seemed  to  enjoy  equally  fencing  and  horseback 
riding  with  Maurice,  playing  Liszt  with  Lucie,  and 
talking  science  with  Miss  Jacobson.  His  courtesy 
to  me  brought  back  the  ways  of  my  lost  husband. 

When  I  think  he  is  wealthy,  has  neither  father 
nor  mother,  and  has  been  brought  up  under  your 


THE  GUEST  141 

very  eyes,  why,  my  dear  Abbe  Binet,  I  think  I  am 
the  happiest  mother  in  the  world  and  have  the 
wisest  counsellor. 

My  one  anxiety,  after  finding  out  the  good  quali- 
ties of  this  young  man,  was  whether  he  would  fall 
in  love  with  Lucie,  and  Lucie  with  him.  She  is 
really  charming,  even  though  her  mother  says  it — 
but  so  nai've !  so  unsophisticated !  so  incapable  of 
any  coquetry  with  any  young  man!  The  dear 
child  would  certainly  not  throw  herself  at  his  head. 
However,  between  you  and  me,  I  believe  her  nat- 
ural grace  has  made  a  profound  impression  on 
Monsieur  de  Montivry.  Not  that  he  said  any- 
thing to  her  about  his  feelings — he  is  too  well  bred 
for  that — but  he  must  have  told  Miss  Jacobson 
how  he  felt.  Evidently  her  forty  years  of  age 
gave  him  confidence.  She  said  to  me  a  little  while 
ago,  "Did  you  notice  how  anxious  and  nervous 
Monsieur  de  Montivry  was  the  day  of  his  depart- 
ure? The  life  at  Beaucourt  had  none  of  the  pleas- 
ures Paris  affords  to  a  rich  and  aristocratic  young 
man  like  him.  He  must  have  left  part  of  his  heart 
behind." 

Miss  Jacobson  was  reasoning  correctly.  She  has 
very  good  common  sense. 

Lucie,  however,  said  nothing  to  any  one,  and  in 
her  place  I  should  have  done  the  same.  Every 
young  girl  loves  to  surround  her  first  love  affair 


142  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

with  mystery.  I  watched  her  and  found  she  was 
very  gracious,  without  coquetry,  to  our  guest,  en- 
joyed being  with  him  and  appeared  somewhat  at  a 
loss  after  his  departure. 

Really,  things  look  hopeful  and  our  wishes  may 
yet  be  fulfilled.  Paris,  I  hope,  will  end  what  Beau- 
court  has  started.  It  is  agreed  that  we  will  see 
much  of  each  other  during  the  winter.  I  intend 
to  ask  Monsieur  de  Montivry  to  dinner  for  the  sec- 
ond day  after  our  return  to  Paris,  and  in  this  way  I 
hope  the  two  young  people  will  grow  very  fond 
of  each  other  and  will  finally  marry  for  love,  in- 
stead of  making — as  I  feared  at  first — a  marriage 
of  convenience. 

Now^  dear  Abbe,  you  will  grant  that  we  are 
acting  like  true  Machiavelists.  However,  it  is  for 
the  good  of  children  we  both  love  and  the  building 
of  a  Christian  family.  I  am  happier  than  words 
can  tell  and  very  grateful  to  you. 

COMTESSE  DE  BEAUCOURT-GlVRY. 
II 

To  Mademoiselle  Clothilde  de  Lespron 
General  Delivery f 

Boulevard  Haussman,  Pans: 
I  am  sending  you  this  letter,  Clo  darling,  se- 
cretly,  so   that  mamma,    Miss  Jacobson,    TAbbe 
Binet,  and  others  who  are  doing  their  best  to  play 


THE  GUEST  143 

the  part  of  Providence  in  taking  care  of  my  seven- 
teen years  shall  not  have  the  chance  to  poke  their 
virtuous  noses  into  our  private  affairs.  What  a  lot 
of  gossip  I  have  to  tell  you,  my  Clo ! 

Now,  listen.  First  of  all,  oh  joy,  we  are  going 
to  leave  Beaucourt  next  Saturday.  We  are  coming 
back  to  the  Rue  de  I'Universite.  I  shall  be  there 
about  five  in  the  afternoon,  and  hope  you  will  find 
time  to  come,  you  and  your  brother  Henri,  if  he 
cares  to  see  me  and  wants  to  know  the  latest  about 
my  marriage.  Doubt  is  no  longer  possible. 
They  expect  me  to  marry  our  guest.  The  beloved 
pupil  of  1'Abbe  Binet  is  destined  to  share  my 
couche  as  they  say  a  la  Comedie  Frangaise. 
Mamma  and  Miss  Jacobson  hold  long  and  myste- 
rious conversations  since  he  went  away.  I  am  be- 
ing petted,  caressed,  kissed,  as  though  the  hour  ol 
separation  had  already  come.  Monsieur  de  Mon- 
tivry  went  back  to  Paris  and  his  beloved  Abbe. 
Was  he  is  love  with  me  ?  Truly  I  cannot  say. 

The  pupil  of  the  Abbe  showed  great  reserve  and 
discretion  during  his  stay.  He  is  not  stupid.  His 
movements  are  graceful,  and  he  is  neither  uglier 
nor  handsomer  than  any  other  man,  but  you  know, 
dear  Clo,  the  only  man's  face  I  like  to  look  upon  is 
your  brother  Henri's — you  may  tell  him  so — there 
is  no  need  for  him  to  be  jealous.  If  mv  intended 
husband  behaved  with  perfect  proprieties  it  was 


i44  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

not  mamma's  fault  nor  Miss  Jacobson's,  for  they 
both  took  every  opportunity  to  throw  us  together, 
relieving  us  of  their  presence  whenever  they  could. 
They,  no  doubt,  thought  that  so  many  tete-a-tetes 
would  be  too  much  for  him;  that  a  Don  Juan 
would  be  revealed  who  would  be  so  enterprising 
that  it  would  be  absolutely  necessary  for  us  to  get 
married  immediately. 

Not  much !  As  soon  as  we  were  alone  our  guest 
would  imperceptibly  move  his  chair  farther  away 
from  mine  and  go  on  talking  about  music,  bicy- 
cling, automobiling,  society,  just  as  though  the 
Abbe  and  mamma  were  there  looking  on. 

Really,  Clo,  I  could  not  help  feeling  vexed.  I 
said  to  myself:  "Well,  the  Abbe  must  bring  up 
his  young  men  on  a  special  model."  Young  men 
usually  cannot  be  ten  minutes  in  my  company  with- 
out saying  very  risque  things.  Then  (do  not  tell 
Henri)  I  was  a  coquette,  a  very  little.  I  brought 
into  play  the  many  little  things  used  in  flirtations, 
such  as  glances,  sudden  contact  of  hands  over  the 
piano  keys,  etc.  It  was  not  quite  without  effect,  and 
once  or  twice  I  believed  he  was  about  to  make  up 
his  mind  to  kiss  my  hair  or  my  wrist ;  but  no  indeed  I 
He  refrained.  It  may  be  the  way  a  man  acts  to- 
ward a  young  girl  whom  he  intends  to  marry.  Do 
tell  your  brother  Henri  that  henceforth  I  expect 
him  to  behave  as  properly  with  me  as  Monsieur 


THE  GUEST  145 

de  Montivry  does,  or  else  I  will  never  marry  him. 
I'll  marry  Monsieur  de  Montivry.  (Have  no  fear, 
I'd  just  as  soon  marry  the  Abbe  Binet  himself.) 

Let  it  be  said,  however,  to  Monsieur  de  Mon- 
tivry's  praise  that  he  appeared  not  quite  himself 
when  he  went  away  yesterday  evening.  At  the 
station  he  seemed  quite  excited.  He  called  mamma 
Monsieur  I' Abbe  and  Miss  Jacobson  Daisy.  He 
kissed  my  hand. 

I'll  certainly  lead  him  a  merry  dance  this  winter. 
I  have  no  intention  to  settle  him  right  away,  for 
I  have  noticed  since  this  marriage  of  mine  is  on 
foot  everybody  is  much  nicer  to  me.  I  am  allowed 
to  do  anything  I  please.  Jacobson  herself  is  a 
perfect  dear.  She  has  given  me  no  work  to  do  and 
vows  and  declares  I  am  doing  beautifully. 

'Tis  but  a  short  time  before  I  am  to  see  you 
again,  little  Clo.  I  send  you  two  kisses:  one  you 
will  keep  for  yourself  and  with  the  other  you  may 
do  what  you  please.  I  shall  ask  Henri  for  it  when 
I  see  him  again. 

I  can  hardly  wait  for  our  return  to  Paris.  I  do 
so  want  to  see  you  and  gossip  with  you.  Gossiping 
is  the  nicest  thing  in  the  world. 

LUCIE  DE  BEAUCOURT. 

P.  S. — Should  Henri  deceive  me  with  cocottes 
I'll  not  marry  him.  Tell  him  I  mean  what  I  say. 
I'll  certainly  find  out.  L. 


146  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

III. 

To  Monsieur  de  Montivry 

23  Rue  de  la  Boetief  Paris: 

Day  after  to-morrow  we  are  going  back  to  Paris, 
my  magnificent  darling,  with  little  goose  and  her 
mother. 

I  hope  to  see  you  that  very  day  at  about  five  in 
the  afternoon  at  your  own  room.  Oh,  you  will 
love  me  as  much  as  you  did  at  Beaucourt,  will  you 
not?  I  am  forever  thinking  of  your  French 
naughtiness,  and  I  blush. 

Good-by,  dear  old  chap.    Plenty  of  kisses. 

DAISY  JACOBSON. 


THE  CONNECTING  LINK 

(Le  Trait  d' Union) 

Comtesse  Clotilde  d'Arminges 

To  Mademoiselle  TLabel  Sivry,  of  the  Boufes- 
Parisiens: 

Sunday. 
MADEMOISELLE — 

As  there  is  a  good  reason  for  our  knowing  each 
other  by  sight  and  by  name,  I  hope  this  letter  will 
not  cause  you  too  great  astonishment. 

I'll  grant  we  did  not  ever  seem  destined  to  cor- 
respond. I  beg  you  will  excuse  me,  for  Comte 
Maxime,  my  husband — and  your  friend — is  re- 
sponsible for  it. 

For  the  last  two  days  and  as  many  nights  my 
husband  has  not  been  home.  He  is  certainly  at 
liberty  to  amuse  himself  as  he  pleases  and  where 
he  chooses.  I  am  the  last  one  to  find  fault.  How- 
ever, such  a  prolonged  absence  is  causing  me  some 
anxiety.  The  Comte  is  a  gentleman,  and  if  he  has 
not  sent  me  a  reassuring  word  it  is  because  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  do  so. 

You  probably  know  that  Monsieur  d'Arminges 
is  subject  to  spells  which  deprive  him  for  hours  of 
the  power  of  motion,  and  even  at  times  of  any 

147 


148  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

semblance  of  life.  These  periods  of  coma  neces- 
sitate careful  attention  and  special  treatment.  Has 
my  husband  been  overtaken  by  one  of  these  spells 
while  away  from  home?  I  fear  so. 

He  left  me  last  Friday  at  the  usual  time  to  go  to 
his  club.  He  was  not  seen  at  the  club  on  Friday 
nor  since  then.  It  is  now  Sunday  night  and  he  is 
still  absent.  I  even  took  the  liberty  to  send  a  trust- 
worthy maid  to  inquire  about  him  from  your  con- 
cierge, mademoiselle.  He  told  her  that  Monsieur 
d'Arminges  had  not  been  at  your  house  for  two 
days.  However,  before  getting  the  police  to  make 
some  inquiries — I  dislike  such  a  thing  very  much — 
I  wished  to  ask  you  personally  if  you  know  the 
whereabouts  of  the  Comte. 

I  hope  you  will  appreciate  the  circumstances 
which  prompt  my  writing  to  you  and  that  you  will, 
if  you  know,  tell  me  where  Comte  Maxime  is,  or 
at  least  if  he  is  safe  and  in  good  health. 

Believe  me,  mademoiselle,  Yours  truly, 

COMTESSE  D'ARMINGES. 

Mademoiselle  Zabel  Sivry 

To  Madame  la  Comtesse  d'Arminges: 
MADAME — 

If  you  saw  Comte  Maxime  Friday  night  you 
are  luckier  than  I  am,  for  I  have  not  heard  from 
him  since  Thursday  afternoon.  We  made  certain 


THE  CONNECTING  LINK         149 

purchases  that  day  at  Fontana's,  amongst  which 
was  a  diamond  butterfly,  which  he  intended  to  give 
you.  He  asked  my  advice  about  selecting  it,  and 
I  did  my  best.  This  is  my  last  news  from  him. 

I,  too,  am  anxious,  not  being  accustomed  to  such 
a  long  absence,  and  fearing,  as  you  do,  for  the 
Comte  the  accident  you  mentioned. 

Of  course,  I  should  never  have  presumed  to  in- 
quire first,  although  I  acknowledge  having  also 
sent  as  discreetly  as  possible  for  information  at 
your  house. 

May  I  hope,  madame,  that  if  you  hear  anything 
about  Monsieur  d'Arminges — it  being  impossible 
for  him  to  let  me  know  personally — you  will  kindly 
reassure  me?  I  shall  do  the  same  without  delay 
should  I  be  the  first  one  to  hear  anything  about  the 
subject  of  our  mutual  anxiety. 

Most  respectfully  yours, 

ZABEL  S. 

Comtesse  d'Arminges 

To  Mademoiselle  Sivry: 

It  is  agreed,  mademoiselle,  whoever  hears  any- 
thing first  will  tell  the  other.  So  far  I  have  heard 
nothing. 

P.  S. — Thank  you  for  the  help  you  gave  the 
Comte  in  selecting  the  butterfly  at  Fontana's.  It 
is  beautiful  and  in  perfect  taste. 


1 50  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Mademoiselle  Sivry 

To  Madame  d'Arminges: 

Monday. 
MADAME — 

Have  no  more  anxiety.  The  Comte  is  found. 
While  we  were  anxious  about  his  health  he  was 
simple  deceiving  us.  Providence  punished  him. 

Here  is  the  story  in  a  few  words : 

Friday  night  as  he  left  you  he  did  not  go  to  his 
club.  He  went  to  his  friend's,  Monsieur  Jules 
Clair,  a  broker.  Together  they  went  to  Bellevue, 
near  Paris. 

At  Bellevue  there  stands  upon  the  edge  of  the 
woods  a  villa.  In  this  villa  lives  a  Spanish  lady 
and  her  two  daughters.  The  three  of  them  always 
extend  a  kind  welcome  to  all  the  Parisians,  espe- 
cially to  those  who,  like  Monsieur  d'Arminges, 
are  rich  and  well  born.  I  know  not  what  amuse- 
ment had  been  promised  to  the  two  friends, 
when  the  Comte  was  suddenly  taken  ill,  as  you 
feared.  The  mistress  of  the  house  became  fright- 
ened. A  doctor  was  sent  for.  His  verdict  was 
that  nothing  could  be  done.  They  must  watch 
and  wait. 

Jules  Clair  dares  not  write  to  you.  He  remains 
faithfully  near  his  friend,  hoping  he  will  soon  re- 
cover consciousness.  However,  the  days  pass  by. 
There  is  no  change  in  Comte  Maxime's  condition. 


THE  CONNECTING  LINK         151 

The  broker  fears  the  consequences — your  anxiety, 
the  interference  of  the  police — and  being  really 
inspired  writes  to  me  and  tells  me  everything. 

And  now,  Madame  la  Comtesse,  you  know 
as  much  as  I  do.  I  am  afraid  your  first  im- 
pulse will  be  to  go  to  Bellevue  to  see  the  Spanish 
woman. 

Will  you  allow  me  respectfully  to  advise  you? 
Do  not  go.  Let  me  do  so.  You  must  not  be  seen 
there.  It  is  a  society  with  which  I  am  unfortu- 
nately better  acquainted  than  you  are.  I  know 
what  language  to  use.  I  will  settle  the  matter 
quickly  and  discreetly. 

There  is  another  reason  for  your  keeping  away. 
When  the  Comte  returns  home  you  will  be  able 
seemingly  to  ignore  his  adventure.  It  will  be  more 
comfortable  for  both  of  you. 

I  am  awaiting  your  wishes,  and  remain 
Yours  very  respectfully, 

ZABEL  S. 

Comtesse  d'Arminges 

To  Mademoiselle  Sivry: 

(Telegram) 

You  are  perfectly  right,  mademoiselle.  I  leave 
everything  to  you.  Thank  you ! 

COMTESSE  D'ARMINGES. 


152  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Comtesse  d'Arminges 

To  Mademoiselle  Sivry: 

All  is  well!  The  Comte,  after  a  few  hours  in 
his  bedroom,  regained  consciousness,  thanks  to  the 
care  of  his  own  physician.  He  is  up  now  and  has 
already  taken  some  nourishment  and  is,  I  suspect, 
rather  ashamed  of  himself.  I  wisely  made  no  al- 
lusion to  Bellevue  nor  to  the  Spanish  ladies.  It 
is  tacitly  understood  that  the  accident  took  place 
at  your  house. 

Now  that  we  are  both  reassured,  I  wish  to  thank 
you,  mademoiselle,  for  the  discretion,  the  tact  and 
the  devotion  you  have  shown  in  this  affair.  I 
knew  already — everybody  in  Paris  knows — that 
you  are  a  very  charming  woman  and  a  greatly  ad- 
mired actress,  but  allow  me  to  be  sympathetically 
surprised  to  meet  amongst  stage  people,  of  whom 
we  are  told  so  many  evil  things,  a  delicacy  and  a 
courtesy  I  would  vainly  have  looked  for  in  our  own 
class.  It  will  be  impossible  for  me  ever  to  repay 
you  for  what  you  have  done,  and  I  willingly  remain 
your  debtor. 

Do  me  the  favor  to  accept  the  butterfly — which 
is  symbolical,  alas ! — the  Comte  gave  me  last  week. 
You  helped  him  to  select  it;  therefore  you  like  it, 
and  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse  to  accept  a  jewel  I 
have  worn. 


THE  CONNECTING  LINK        153 

I  will  take  it  to  your  house  personally  this  after- 
noon at  about  three  o'clock.  Should  you  be  there 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you. 

COMTESSE  D'ARMINGES. 

P.  S. — I'll  ask  you  at  the  same  time  for  your 
milliner's  address.  Your  hats  are  very  much  ad- 
mired by  all  of  us,  and  neither  Reboux  nor  Virot 
knows  who  trims  them  for  you.  You  will  give  it 
to  me,  will  you  not?  We  certainly  can  have  the 

same  modiste,  as  we  have  the  same 

I  almost  said  something  improper. 


AFTER  THE  FALL 

(Apres  le  Peche) 

It  is  ten  o'clock  at  night.  A  young  woman  of 
about  twenty-five,  Madame  de  Robertier,  is  alone 
in  her  bedroom,  seated  at  a  small  desk  of  English 
mahogany.  The  room  is  lighted  by  a  tiny  lamp. 
A  letter  is  before  her.  There  is  no  address  on  the 
long  mauve  envelope. 

Madame  de  Robertier  is  in  negligee  very  be- 
coming to  her.  She  is  an  exquisite  blonde.  Her 
complexion  is  unusually  clear  and  pure,  but  this 
evening  she  has  been  crying  a  great  deal  and  her 
eyes  show  traces  of  tears. 

MADAME  DE  ROBERTIER  (meditating).  Had 
I  any  courage,  were  I  really  worth  anything  at  all 
I  should  write  the  truth  to  my  husband.  I  should 
tell  him :  I  am  a  wretch,  unworthy  of  you.  Because 
your  business,  which  interests  both  of  us  equally, 
keeps  you  away  from  me  I  have  deceived  you.  I 
have  a  lover,  and  what  a  lover!  A  cercleux,  a 
gambler,  stupid  as  a  log.  He  has  handsome  dark 
eyes,  it  is  true,  and  beautiful  hands.  He  also  has 
a  great  name,  Marquis  de  Hermoso.  That  should 
not  matter,  should  it?  It  should  not  be  a  sufficient 

154 


AFTER  THE  FALL  155 

reason  to  betray  you  after  three  years  of  happy 
married  life — you  whom  I  love  and  who  loves  me. 
Because  I  love  you,  alas!  Jean,  yes,  I  love  you, 
especially  now,  much  more  than  the  Marquis,  who 
held  me  in  his  arms  from  five  to  seven  at  his  house, 
Rue  de  la  Baume. 

(Flood  of  reminiscences.  Madame  de  Robertier's 
thoughts  drift  a  moment.  She  recovers  herself.) 

This  is  what  I  should  write  to  Monsieur  de 
Robertier  if  I  had  any  heart.  That  would  be  loyal, 
honest  (after  a  time)  and  absurd,  because  after 
all  it  would  be  much  worse  for  his  peace  of  mind 
to  know  everything.  To-day  from  five  to  seven 
Monsieur  de  Robertier  has  been  as  quiet  and  happy 
as  usual.  In  all  reason  no  one  can  expect  me  to 
make  my  husband  unhappy  through  an  excess  of 
loyalty.  I  will  write  to  Jean  in  a  minute  a  good, 
long  letter  full  of  tender  and  passionate  things  (he 
loves  to  receive  such  letters  when  he  is  away  from 
me).  And  the  same  mail  will  bring  to  Hermoso 
this  little  note  written  immediately  after  leaving 
him. 

My  husband  will  have  his  letter  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. Monsieur  de  Hermoso  will  receive  his 
to-morrow  morning.  What  a  lovely  surprise  for 
his  awakening ! 


156  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

I  must  read  it  again. 

(Tears  the  envelope,  opens  the  letter  and 
reads.} 

"MONSIEUR: 

"You  have  cruelly  abused  the  confidence  which 
an  honest  woman  placed  in  you.  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  your  house  simply  to  look  at  your  bibelots. 
After  what  passed  you  understand  I  cannot  see  you 
again.  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that  I  love 
my  husband  and  feel  for  you  the  deepest  disgust. 

"JACQUELINE." 

(She  thinks  a  moment,  still  holding  the  note.} 

But — it  is  very  imprudent,  after  all,  to  write 
such  things  to  this  man.  Suppose  he  should  show 
this  letter  at  his  club.  It  means  clearly,  "I  have 
been  your  mistress,"  and  then  (with  an  impercepti- 
ble smile}  the  sentence  about  the  bibelots  is  not  a 
happy  one.  I  was  so  excited.  The  sentence  about 
the  disgust,  on  the  other  hand,  is  perfect. 

(She  tears  the  letter,  begins  another,  taking  care 
to  change  her  handwriting.} 

"DEAR  SIR: 

"You  have  failed  to  keep  your  word.     I  did 


AFTER  THE  FALL  157 

what  I  did  convinced  that  you  would  act  like  a  gen- 
tleman. You  have  taken  advantage  of  me  cruelly. 
Henceforth  you  will  understand  that  it  will  be  im- 
possible to  see  me  again,  for  I  am  glad  to  be  able 
to  tell  you  that  I  love  my  husband  and  feel  for  you 
nothing  but  scorn. 

ttT >1 

(She  thinks.) 


This  one  is  not  so  compromising,  but  it  is  idiotic. 
"I  did  what  I  did" — that  does  not  mean  anything 
at  all.  Yes,  it  is  badly  written.  And  Hermoso 
has  been  the  lover  of  Madame  Lescoeuvre,  who  can 
write  so  well.  Decidedly,  this  will  not  do. 

(She  tears  the  note  and  begins  another.) 

"DEAR  SIR: 

"I  beg  you  will  erase  from  your  memory,  as  I 
do  from  mine,  the  hours  I  spent  with  you  to-day. 
I  address  myself  to  your  honor  as  a  gentleman. 
Everything,  n'est  ce  pas,  is  over  and  forgotten.  I 
adore  my  husband  and  feel  for  you — "  (She  stops) 

Truly,  writing  to  him  in  this  way  I  cannot  tell  him 
I  feel  for  him  the  greatest  disgust.  Two  lines 
above  I  call  him  a  gentleman.  I  will  simply  say, 
"I  adore  my  husband." 


158  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Only  this  letter  coming  the  day  after — he  would 
laugh  and  he  would  have  the  right  to  do  so.  Truly, 
have  I  anything  to  reproach  him  with?  He  did 
what  any  other  man  would  have  done  under  the 
same  circumstances.  I  accepted  his  invitation  to 
come  and  see  his  bibelots.  I  knew  perfectly  well 
he  would  not  act  like  the  guardian  of  a  museum. 
I  do  not  see  how  it  happened.  It  is  wrong  of  my 
husband  to  leave  me  alone  so  long. 

(She  tears  the  letter  which  has  just  been  written 
and  writes  another.) 

"DEAR  SIR: 

"I  beg  you  to  erase  this  day  from  your  memory, 
as  I  shall  from  mine,  everything.  All  must  be  for- 
gotten. I  shall  remember  you  with  a  heart  full  of 
sadness,  but  without  scorn  and  without  hatred. 

JJT »» 

(Reading  again.) 

This  one  is  pretty  good.  It  is  sad,  calm,  dignified. 
It  will  not  hurt  the  poor  man  too  much.  I  have 
played  the  coquette  with  him  after  all! 

Now,  shall  I  send  the  letter  this  evening?  It  is 
too  late,  I  fear.  Betty  would  look  at  the  address 
and  gossip  with  the  servants.  It  will  be  better  for 
me  to  mail  it  to-morrow  on  my  way  to  the  Louvre. 
Now,  let's  go  to  bed. 


AFTER  THE  FALL  159 

(Night  toilet,  prayers,  and  so  forth.  Eight  hours 
of  sound  sleep.  About  half-past  nine  the  next 
morning,  Betty,  the  maid,  enters  her  mistress' 
room.) 

MADAME  DE  ROBERTIER  (awakening).  Well? 
What  is  it? 

BETTY.  A  large  basket  of  flowers  from  Vail- 
lent,  madame. 

MADAME  DE  ROBERTIER  (gathering  her  wits). 
Oh,  some  flowers.  Yes,  I  know.  All  right.  Close 
the  windows  and  bring  the  basket.  (Betty  brings 
a  basket  of  exquisite  red  and  white  roses  and  them 
goes  out.) 

MADAME  DE  ROBERTIER.  How  nice  of  him.  A 
lovely  morning's  greeting.  Poor  fellow!  And  I 
wrote  him  such  a  harsh  letter  last  night ! 

(She  goes  to  her  desk,  tears  open  the  letter  writ- 
ten the  night  before,  reads  it  over;  walks  about  the 
room  for  a  few  minutes,  stops  before  the  pier  glass 
and  sees,  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction,  that  sleep 
has  brought  back  freshness  to  her  face.  Goes  to 
her  desk  and  tears  the  letter,  saying:} 

Decidedly,  I  cannot  send  this  after  this  basket  of 
flowers. 


160  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

(Sits  down  and  writes  rapidly  the  following 
note:) 

"Thank  you.  I  am  very  sad.  I  should  like  to 
forget  yesterday.  I  cannot.  Be  sorry  for  mel" 

UT >> 

(Reading.) 

This  will  do.  It  is  dignified  and  much  better 
than  the  other  one.  I'll  post  it  on  my  way  to  the 
Louvre.  (Rings  for  Betty.) 


A  FRIEND 
(L'Amic) 

Madame  Gelabert 

To  Lieutenant  Henri  de  Poy: 

You  honor  me,  dear  friend,  by  your  confidence. 
Just  think,  not  yet  thirty  years  old — being  only 
eighteen  months  older  than  my  lovely  friend 
Yvonne,  who  had  the  great,  good  fortune  of  at- 
tracting you — to  be  asked  to  play  matchmaker  as 
any  old  grandmother  might.  If  it  did  not  concern 
Yvonne,  whom  I  love,  and  you,  whom  I  do  not 
dislike,  I  might  have  refused  such  an  honor,  but 
being  a  true  friend  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  both 
of  you. 

You  dare  not,  you  say,  speak  about  your  feelings 
to  the  charming  Yvonne  because  you  are  naturally 
timid  and  think  yourself  unworthy  of  her  love. 
Timid  you  certainly  are !  I  know  no  man  as  han- 
dicapped as  you  when  it  comes  to  say  to  a  woman, 
"I  love  you."  You — reputed  to  be  such  a  fine 
officer — so  bold  before  the  enemy's  fire,  you  are 
completely  routed  by  the  seemingly  virtuous  looks 
of  our  sex.  A  haughty  glance  frightens  you.  Ah ! 
Lieutenant,  what  a  lot  of  fun  you  have  already 
missed!  Handsome  as  you  are  (you  are  hand- 

161 


1 62  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

some,  do  you  know  it?)  you  could  have  had  many 
a  love  affair  in  our  set.  We  certainly  cannot,  in  all 
decency,  make  advances  to  you.  To  come  back  to 
the  subject.  Yvonne,  whom  you  formally  call 
Madame  la  Baronne  de  Guerbois,  has  not  been 
able  to  help  you  overcome  your  usual  embarrass- 
ment !  She  is  usually  very  clever.  How  skilfully 
she  used  to  bring  about  the  meetings  in  which  you 
lost  your  heart  to  her !  To  think  that  I  suspected 
nothing  I  I  attributed  her  more  frequent  visits  to 
me  to  the  leisure  her  widowhood  gave  her,  and  I 
was  glad  to  see  you  also  come  to  my  house  more 
and  more  frequently.  Both  of  you  certainly  made 
me  play  a  singular  part,  but  as  you  wish  to  marry 
her  I  have  no  grudge  against  you,  and  forgive  you, 
especially,  my  dear  Henri,  since  you  ask  my  advice 
and  help  in  the  matter. 

Yes,  dear  friend,  you  have  made  a  happy  choice. 
You  know  how  much  I  love  Yvonne.  Time  has 
strengthened  our  friendship,  which  was  begun  in 
the  schoolroom.  I  have  been  the  confidante  of  all 
her  girlish  dreams,  her  love  affairs,  her  failings. 
I  was  her  only  support  at  the  critical  time  in  her 
life — she  surely  has  told  you — which  has  not  been 
a  haven  of  rest.  Yvonne,  with  more  heart,  or  if 
you  prefer,  more  temperament,  than  one  would 
suspect,  was  unhappily  married.  Her  beauty,  her 
expensive  tastes  required  money.  M.  de  Guerbois, 


A  FRIEND  163 

a  rich  old  man,  gave  her  a  good  and  honorable 
name  with  luxuries.  It  intoxicated  the  dear  Yvonne, 
who  had  been  poor  since  infancy  and  whose  name 
was  Copain.  By  the  way,  never  mention  that 
name  to  her,  for  she  loathes  it  as  too  plebeian.  Her 
ancestors  were  all  small  tradespeople,  very  plain 
though  honorable.  However,  you  would  not  be 
marrying  them.  All  you  need  to  care  for  is  the 
fact  that  although  of  bourgeois  extraction,  Yvonne 
is  grace  and  distinction  personified. 

Having  become  Baronne  de  Guerbois,  Yvonne, 
as  I  said  above,  became  intoxicated  with  her  for- 
tune and  newly  acquired  entrance  into  aristocracy. 
However,  fortune  and  position  are  not  always  suffi- 
cient to  a  beautiful  and  much  admired  woman  of 
twenty.  The  poor  child  did  not  even  have  any 
strong  religious  belief  to  support  her.  In  short, 
her  five  years  of  married  life  did  not  pass  without 
storms.  She  certainly  did  not  hide  the  fact  from 
you,  for  she  is  loyalty  itself,  and  you  are  too  sensi- 
ble to  resent  her  actions  of  the  past.  She  did  not 
know  you  then.  You  have  no  right  to  be  more 
severe  on  the  poor  child  than  we  have  been,  and 
it  will  be  a  great  honor  as  well  as  a  great  happiness 
for  you  to  give  her  the  shelter  of  your  spotless 
name.  It  will  reopen  the  few  doors  which  have 
been  closed  to  her. 

You  see,  dear  friend,  I  fully  approve  of  your 


1 64  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

plans  and  will  be  glad  to  see  them  come  to  ma- 
turity. However,  you  are  a  man  and  would  un- 
doubtedly like  to  know  the  truth.  I  am  not  at  all 
certain  Yvonne  would  marry  you,  not  that  she  ever 
told  me  anything  to  make  me  think  she  would  not. 
I  wish  she  had.  She  speaks  of  you  serenely  and 
openly.  Knowing  her  as  I  do,  I  am  tempted  to 
say  she  does  not  dream  of  your  love. 

Had  I  for  a  second  thought  her  heart  was  no 
longer  in  her  keeping  I  should  have  suspected  her 
of  having  given  it  to  young  Maurice  Lautrait. 
Three  months  ago  she  was  attracted  by  this  cer- 
cleux  and  did  not  hesitate  to  show  it.  As  she  has 
said  nothing  about  him  for  some  time  I  have  won- 
dered, Ahem !  Can  she  be  no  longer  able  to  freely 
talk  about  him?  Perhaps  it  only  means  that  he 
has  been  set  aside  and  forgotten  and  her  whole 
thought  is  now  centred  upon  you.  I  wish  it  with 
all  my  heart! 

I  am  only  warning  you  against  a  possible  disap- 
pointment. Should  you  not  succeed  the  first  time 
— why,  try  again.  Her  caprices  never  last  long  and 
she  is  too  intelligent  not  to  realize  the  advantages 
of  a  marriage  with  a  man  like  yourself,  young, 
rich  and  well  established  in  society.  If  need  be, 
I'll  use  all  the  influence  I  have  over  her  to  help 
your  cause,  and  once  her  husband,  you  need  not 
receive  M.  Lautrait. 


A  FRIEND  165 

Shall  we  consider  the  thing  now  as  settled  ?  Your 
old  friend  is  going  to  give  you  some  advice,  having 
only  the  desire  to  make  sure  of  your  happiness  and 
Yvonne's.  Promise  me,  my  friend,  to  watch  care- 
fully over  the  dear  child's  health.  Although  she 
looks  strong  and  well  she  is  nevertheless  very  deli- 
cate, neurasthenic  to  a  degree  alarming  to  her  phy- 
sicians. This  dreadful  condition  goes  back  to  the 
first  year  of  her  married  life.  It  is  said  M.  de  Guer- 
bois  alone  knows  the  cause.  Poor  child!  You 
will  have  to  love  her  much  to  make  her  forget  her 
unpleasant  memories. 

I  love  her  in  spite  of  the  changefulness  of  her 
temper.  To  me  she  recalls  all  the  physical  and 
moral  tribulations  she  has  passed  through. 

Never  cross  her  in  anything,  and  if  sometimes 
her  whims  surprise  you,  or  one  of  those  sudden 
changes  of  moods  comes  on,  such  as  I  am  ac- 
quainted with,  take  her  into  your  arms,  kiss  her, 
but  do  not  scold.  It  seems  to  be  the  only  method 
of  calming  her  and  it  is  infallible. 

Some  one  she  once  loved  told  me:  "The  best 
thing  in  Yvonne's  disposition  is  her  temperament." 
My  only  fear,  my  dear  friend,  and  my  duty  is  to 
tell  it  before  the  irretrievable  step  has  been  taken, 
is  not  the  fear  that  Yvonne  will  be  unhappy  with 
you — you  are  for  her  the  unlooked-for  husband — 
but  I  am  less  certain  of  your  own  happiness,  and 


1 66  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

that  worries  me.  Why  did  you  ask  my  advice? 
Why  do  you  ask  me  to  warn  you  against  yourself  ? 
1  know  you  well. 

It  seems  to  me  that  to  be  happy  with  a  woman 
you  would  have  to  find  in  her  more  self-abnegation, 
more  motherliness — if  I  may  say  so — than  you  can 
expect  from  the  delightful  Yvonne. 

You  have  a  brilliant  future  before  you.  I  do  not 
see  clearly  what  benefit  marriage  and  the  care  of  a 
family  could  bring  to  your  life,  already  so  full.  I 
should  like  to  see  by  your  side  a  less  exacting 
woman,  asking  in  return  for  her  devotion  only  the 
joy  and  pride  your  friendship  would  afford  her. 
Naturally  all  these  objections  fail  before  so  great 
an  argument  as  love.  If  you  truly  love,  if  you 
are  not  mistaking  the  thrill  of  desire  for  love  a 
timid  man  like  you  feels  when  he  is  with  a  coquette, 
then  I  frankly  say  to  you,  marry.  If  you  are — if 
you  are — then  wait.  I  do  not  believe  you  have  to 
fear  any  serious  rival. 

Meditate  upon  this,  my  dear  friend,  and  to- 
morrow come  and  tell  me  the  results  at  three  in  the 
afternoon.  I  shall  be  at  home  for  you  only.  My 
husband  will  not  disturb  us,  as  he  is  away  on  a 
hunting  trip.  You  will  speak  to  me  freely,  will 
you  not?  Together  we  will  examine  your  heart 
and  make  sure  you  really  know  it.  I  am  certain 
you  need  some  one  to  help  you. 


A  FRIEND  167 

Whatever  may  be  the  result  of  this  inspection  I 
shall  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  having  done  my 
very  best  for  you,  and  for  my  dear  Yvonne,  whom 
I  love  almost  as  much  as  I  do  you. 


A  RIVAL 

(Rivale) 

June  Eighteen. 

I  HAD  never  been  jealous  of  the  women  Maurice 
courted  until  Juliette,  nor  was  I  jealous  of  his  suc- 
cess and  good  fortune  in  society  or  his  conquests 
with  actresses  and  among  ladies  of  all  kinds. 
Young  women,  young  girls  more  or  less  emanci- 
pated, all  flew  to  him,  attracted  like  larks  by  his 
sparkling  fame,  his  good  looks  and  princely  man- 
ners. 

I  was  not  jealous;  I  was  even  proud  that  I  re- 
ceived some  of  the  homage. 

Of  my  flesh  and  blood  I  had  made  this  hand- 
some artist  so  quickly  brought  into  fame ! 

To  comfort  me  from  an  early  widowhood  I  had 
wished  no  other  love  but  his.  Since  I  had  deprived 
myself  of  so  many  things,  sacrificed  so  much  to 
bring  up  and  educate  him,  his  fame  like  his  beauty 
was  my  work. 

Then  he  was  so  grateful,  so  tender  to  his  old 
mother,  my  cherished  artist ! 

Even  before  people  he  would  always  call  me 
"Maman."  He  would  pretend  to  be  so  obedient 
to  my  desires,  this  big  boy,  whose  independence  no 

168 


A  RIVAL  169 

master  had  curbed.  Ah !  they  could  pursue  him  in 
his  young  glory!  They  could  give  themselves  to 
him  !  I  knew  they  were  only  an  amusement ;  that 
he  would  tire  of  them  and  change,  just  as  he  took 
a  new  horse  to  go  to  the  Bois.  The  only  woman  in 
his  life,  the  true  adviser,  the  confidante  and  his 
refuge,  was  his  mother. 

He  met  Juliette  among  such  bourgeois  who  like 
to  rub  up  against  artists.  She  was  a  young  girl — 
really  no  longer  young — who  had  flirted  a  great 
deal;  that  is  to  say,  had  tried  and  missed  many 
matches. 

She  was  pretty,  I  must  admit,  with  red  hair  like 
English  mahogany;  her  skin  like  bran,  so  delicate 
that  one  was  afraid  to  mar  it  with  a  kiss;  with 
eyes  of  a  peculiar  green,  very  deep  and  dewy — sea- 
weed green  eyes,  if  one  can  say  that.  She  courted 
Maurice  like  all  the  others,  and  Maurice  rushed  to 
her  with  overflowing  spirits,  as  he  always  did,  be- 
cause he  imagined  the  first  six  weeks  that  he  had 
found  the  grande  passion.  I  had  no  anxiety,  know- 
ing the  length  of  such  passion. 

When  he  painted  the  portrait  of  Juliette  she 
made  me  uneasy  with  her  seaweed  eyes,  watery  and 
cold,  in  which  I  did  not  read  the  adoration,  the 
desire  of  sacrifice,  that  Maurice  inspired  in  women. 
The  anxious,  agitated  and  uneasy  one  was  rather 
Maurice. 


1 70  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

He  would  try  to  divert  himself  when  near  her 
by  telling  funny  anecdotes  or  bons  mots,  but  I  knew 
that  his  heart  was  not  happy.  Three  times  he 
started  the  portrait  of  Juliette  and  three  times  he 
made  a  failure.  She  would  harshly  remind  him  of 
that. 

The  time  of  leaving  for  the  country  came. 
Juliette  was  about  to  leave.  A  fourth  trial  was 
postponed  for  the  leisure  of  the  country.  Maurice 
was  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  her  parents  on  their 
estate  in  Touraine,  and  there,  more  peacefully, 
would  begin  and  finish  the  portrait. 

Until  he  left,  my  beloved  artist  was  very  sad  and 
all  upset.  I  suffered  as  much  as  he  did,  because  he 
did  not  confide  his  misery  to  me.  For  the  first  time 
he  did  not  tell  me  anything.  He  never  pronounced 
Juliette's  name  in  my  presence.  When  I  would  try 
to  talk  about  her  myself  he  showed  me  a  face  hard 
and  mute — one  that  his  old  mother  did  not  know. 

He  left.  I  was  alone  for  one  month  and  a  half. 
When  he  came  he  was  well  again  and  almost  joy- 
ful. He  told  me  that  he  wished  to  marry  Juliette. 
Well!  I  could  not  endure  it.  I  told  him  what 
I  thought  of  his  Juliette;  I  had  information  and 
knew  stories  and  stories.  The  stories  were  perhaps 
not  absolutely  authentic.  There  were  some  which 
seemed  to  be  invented,  but  I  pretended  to  believe 
everything  and  told  him  all.  He  listened  to  me 


A  RIVAL  171 

silently  for  a  long  time;  then  he  grew  pale  and 
left  me.  He  came  back  only  at  night.  He  said, 
kissing  me,  "Listen,  mother,  never  speak  to  me  as 
you  did  a  little  while  ago.  Such  baseness  as  has 
been  told  you  is  unworthy  of  you.  Juliette  merits 
to  be  loved  and  she  loves  me.  Do  not  force  me  to 
choose  between  her  and  you." 

They  were  married.  I  was  not  able  to  bring 
myself  to  live  with  them,  although  Juliette  had 
offered  to  have  us  live  together.  No!  I  would 
not!  I  could  not.  I  went  to  live  near  Paris  in  a 
little  house  with  my  two  servants.  Maurice  came 
to  see  me  from  time  to  time;  and  on  Sunday  he 
lunched  with  me.  I  never  met  my  daughter-in-law 
unless  I  went  to  Paris  myself. 

I  lived  thus  two  sad  years,  the  saddest  of  my 
life,  and  which  have  made  me  ten  years  older. 
Never  a  betrayed  wife  or  a  deceived  mistress  has 
been  as  jealous  as  I  was.  Not  of  the  joys  and 
pleasures  that  she  gave  him,  nor  of  the  caresses 
a  fteur  de  nerfs  that  he  had  received  and  returned 
to  so  many  women!  No — but  she  was  his  com- 
panion, confidante,  shelter,  all  that  I  had  been; 
she  was  what  I  no  longer  was,  the  woman  of  his 
life. 

The  first  year  of  his  marriage  he  did  not  exhibit 
his  paintings ;  he  did  nothing.  Would  one  believe 
that  I  was  pleased  with  that?  And  I  said  to  my- 


1 72  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

self,  "She  prevents  him  from  painting."  The  fol- 
lowing year,  however,  with  his  Mart  de  Manon,  he 
triumphed,  he  received  the  prix  du  Salon,  and  his 
success  hurt  me !  Me !  who  had  formerly  lived  on 
his  successes.  It  was  because  I  had  recognized  the 
undulating  body,  the  red  curls,  the  seaweed  eyes  of 
Manon ! 

He  did  not  forget  me;  he  always  came  to  see  his 
old  mother;  little  by  little  he  came  oftener,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  he  remained  longer.  One  would 
have  said  that  he  had  something  to  confide  that  he 
did  not  dare,  and  that  he  suffered  for  it.  He  was 
suffering,  and  because  I  adored  him  I  knew  well 
whence  came  the  reason  of  his  pain  and  I  did  not 
wish  that  he  should  pour  it  in  one  avowal;  it  was 
necessary  that  he  should  drink  it  to  the  lees  alone, 
without  help,  witness,  so  that  he  should  come  back 
to  me  bruised  and  quivering,  to  be  cured,  and  he 
should  owe  me  his  life.  I  no  longer  hated  Juliette 
now  that  she  did  him  harm.  At  the  time  of  their 
honeymoon  I  had  not  wished  to  know  anything  in 
their  life.  Now  that  the  April  moon  was  rising  I 
entered  into  their  existence ;  I  observed  and  saw  and 
understood  everything  at  one  glance.  My  daugh- 
ter-in-law had  no  lover  yet,  but  curiosity  was  awak- 
ened in  her  impure  mind.  I  went  to  one  of  their 
receptions;  I  saw  the  man  she  wanted.  He  was 
one  of  those  who  had  formerly  flirted  with  her 


A  RIVAL  173 

and  had  received  demi-caresses — the  first  one,  per- 
haps— and  now  knowing  what  love  was,  she  came 
back  to  him.  Our  first  love  attracts  us  the  rest  of 
our  life,  and  sometimes  we  come- back  to  it  in  spite 
of  ourselves. 

I  came  back  to  my  little  house  in  the  suburbs, 
calmed,  sure  of  the  future.  Six  weeks  later,  when 
my  poor  beloved  Maurice  came  to  throw  himself 
in  my  arms,  sobbing  and  prostrated,  but  also  furi- 
ous and  enraged  against  that  woman  who  was  al- 
ready out  of  reach,  I  pressed  him  against  me, 
thanking  God,  who  was  giving  him  back  to  me. 

All  my  tortures  were  forgotten.  He  was  back! 
I  had  overcome  my  rival. 


Madame  Pierre  Durieu: 

To  Madame  Pierre  Durieu: 

MY  DEAR  CHILD — you  for  whom  I  write  this 
sort  of  testament — I  know  you  not.  You  are  living, 
however,  at  this  moment  somewhere  in  this  great 
Paris,  outside  of  it  perhaps,  though  I  cannot  im- 
agine my  beloved  Parisian,  Pierre,  marrying  a  girl 
brought  up  outside  of  Paris  after  I  am  gone.  You 
see  I  speak  of  his  second  marriage  without  any 
anger,  without  any  suffering,  as  of  an  inevitable 
thing  rather  to  be  desired,  for  my  dear  Pierre  must 
not  live  alone,  and  soon  I  shall  be  no  more. 

I  shall  live  one  more  week,  this  much  the  doctor 
told  me  a  little  while  ago. 

For  three  years  I  have  been  suffering  cruelly, 
and  I  should  hail  my  deliverance  with  joy  if  I  were 
not  at  the  same  time  to  part  with  my  husband, 
for  I  love  him  so  passionately  that  the  hours  of 
my  present  agonies  seem  short  when  he  is  by  my 
side. 

Naturally,  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  about  him. 
This  is  to  be  given  to  you  a  month  after  your  mar- 

174 


TESTAMENT  175 

riage  by  Monsieur  Legrand,  my  lawyer,  whom  I 
can  trust.  Read  this  carefully,  and  think  while 
reading  that  it  was  written  at  a  time  when  the  soul 
is  almost  freed  from  the  body,  by  the  woman  who 
has  loved  most  dearly  the  man  you  now  love  most. 

I  was  twenty-six  when  Pierre  married  me.  I 
am  now  thirty-four.  I  must  give  you  a  short  story 
of  our  life  together  so  that  you  may  well  under- 
stand what  I  shall  tell  you  afterward. 

We  lived  next  door  to  each  other;  he  was  tak- 
ing music  lessons  at  the  Conservatoire,  and  I  was 
giving  private  lessons  all  day.  Pierre  was  twenty- 
two,  but  scarcely  looked  eighteen;  he  was  pale, 
thin,  coughed,  and  my  mother  and  myself  were 
very  sorry  for  him.  We  fell  into  the  habit  of  doing 
little  motherly  things  for  him;  he  often  came  to 
dinner  with  us,  and  sometimes  we  passed  the  eve- 
ning at  his  house.  He  played  his  compositions  for 
us  upon  a  wretched  piano  he  had  rented.  Mother 
did  not  think  much  of  his  talent,  while  I  was  be- 
ginning to  suspect  his  genius.  What  shall  I  say, 
my  child  ?  We  fell  in  love  with  each  other.  Pierre 
proposed.  I  did  not  hide  from  him  all  the  incon- 
veniences there  were  in  his  making  a  poor  mar- 
riage, to  say  nothing  of  my  being  four  years  older 
than  he  was.  His  mind  was  made  up;  nothing 
could  change  his  intentions,  and  I  loved  him  too 
much  to  resist  him  long. 


176  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

This  disinterested  marriage  brought  him  luck. 
Even  before  he  had  won  the  Prix  de  Rome  he  be- 
gan to  be  known  among  artists  and  society  people 
interested  in  art.  His  pupils  were  many.  A 
very  rich  foreigner,  exceedingly  fond  of  music,  pre- 
sented at  her  house  his  wonderful  lyric  drama, 
Enoch  Arden,  whom  many  insist  on  calling  his 
masterpiece. 

Pierre  had  become  famous.  With  it  all  he  was 
mine — society  had  not  turned  his  head.  In  Rome 
he  lived  in  retirement  and  worked  hard,  and  I  do 
not  believe  any  woman  enjoyed  more  happiness 
than  I  did  during  those  few  years.  The  only  sor- 
row, which  came  just  before  our  return  home,  was 
the  loss  of  my  dear  mother. 

Now,  child,  do  not  misunderstand  me.  I  do  not 
wish  to  accuse  Pierre,  nor  do  I  wish  to  make  him 
appear  in  your  eyes  selfish  and  worldly.  We  should 
not  demand  in  a  man  of  genius  the  same  virtues 
that  are  the  least  duty  of  an  ordinary  man ;  besides, 
Pierre  was  tied  to  a  woman  older  than  himself, 
whose  health  was  undermined  by  a  mysterious 
sickness.  I  suffered  horribly. 

Paris  once  more  after  the  peaceful  years  spent 
in  Italy,  Paris  so  greedy  for  new  names  and  new 
fame ;  Paris  greeted  him  in  a  way  that  intoxicated 
him.  He  was  seized  by  a  fever  of  worldliness  and 
he  lost  his  head.  His  aim  and  ambition  were  now 


TESTAMENT  177 

to  be  one  of  the  world  and  the  idol  of  society 
women.  He  succeeded.  His  work  suffered  and 
our  happiness  was  destroyed.  He  neglected  me. 
He  neglected  his  art. 

True,  sickness  was  taking  from  me  youth  and 
personal  charms.  From  time  to  time  Pierre  saw  how 
miserable  I  was,  and  would  be  moved  by  repent- 
ance, and  for  weeks  at  a  time  he  would  come  back 
to  me — I  suspect  mostly  when  some  society  woman 
had  tormented  or  deceived  him.  If,  however,  I 
was  no  longer  the  joy  of  his  eyes  I  was  still,  as  he 
liked  to  call  me,  the  keeper  of  his  inner  self.  Will- 
ingly I  devoted  myself  to  the  task.  More  than 
ever  Pierre  needed  me.  Our  income  was  melting 
rapidly  in  the  feverish  life  he  was  living.  He 
worked  little  and  the  greatest  economy  became 
necessary.  Too  long  hours  were  not  good  for  his 
health;  too  high  living,  all  irregularities,  affected 
his  heart.  I  made  use  of  my  own  sickness  to  de- 
tain him  at  home  at  least  two  evenings  a  week;  no 
doubt  he  must  have  thought  me  selfish  and  I  may 
have  lost  some  of  his  love  by  so  doing,  but  I  did 
at  least,  in  so  far  as  I  was  able,  mitigate  the  deadly 
effect  of  his  new  life. 

This  motherly  role  I  must  also  give  up,  and  once 
dead  I  wonder  what  will  become  of  Pierre.  I  shall 
require  a  promise  that  he  marry  again,  for  I  am 
too  much  afraid  of  chance  companions. 


178  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Whom  will  he  choose  ?  Who  will  she  be  ?  Will 
she  love  him  unselfishly  for  himself  only,  as  a 
woman  should  love  an  artist?  Will  she  be  the 
keeper  of  his  inner  self  as  well  as  the  delight  of 
his  senses  and  the  joy  of  his  mind? 

Dear  child,  let  me  advise  you.  To  make  him 
happy  you  will  have  over  me  the  advantages  of 
youth,  health,  and  novelty.  Without  any  jealousy, 
I  wish  you  to  be  more  beautiful,  more  fascinating 
than  I  was  even  when  he  thought  I  was.  Make 
use  of  your  power  to  make  him  happy.  Without 
tormenting  him  by  useless  coquetries,  be  coquette 
enough  with  him  to  foster  his  desire  for  you.  I 
never  did  that  and  therein  lies  my  mistake.  He 
knew  I  would  always  be  there  to  soothe  and  heal 
his  bruised  heart.  The  less  certain  he  will  be 
about  you  the  less  time  he  will  have  to  spend  out- 
side in  intrigues  that  are  not  good  for  his  health 
nor  his  talent.  In  a  word,  play  the  coquette  while 
thinking  of  him  and  not  of  yourself. 

Perhaps  you  will  be  rich.  I  hope  so,  for  one  of 
my  greatest  anxieties  has  always  been  Pierre's  fu- 
ture ;  the  terrible  future  of  a  poor  artist  who  when 
old  age  comes  cannot  earn  his  living  and  has  been 
unable  to  save.  Yet  Pierre  might  be  capable  of 
marrying  a  penniless  woman,  and  I  would  not  be 
the  one  to  blame  him  for  so  doing.  If  you  are,  my 
poor  child,  you  will  have  to  exercise  the  strictest 


TESTAMENT  179 

economy  and  avoid  debts.  Let  nothing  interfere 
with  his  material  comfort,  and  above  all  do  not 
commit  the  crime  of  making  him  slave  at  work  to 
increase  your  own  personal  comfort.  Remember 
that  any  dress  you  buy,  any  jewel  he  gives  you,  will 
cost  him  some  of  his  health  and  genius — both  must 
be  sacred  to  you.  Do  not  tire  him  with  love,  for  he 
is  not  so  strong  as  he  thinks. 

It  is  probable  that  he  will  deceive  you  for  other 
women.  You  would  not  love  him  much  if  you  did 
not  suffer,  but  you  would  love  him  still  less  if  you 
tormented  him  with  your  jealousy.  Hold  him  as 
well  as  you  can,  but  sincerely  forgive  his  weak- 
nesses. You  will  be  young  enough  to  live  to  the 
blessed  old  age  (which  would  have  been  paradise 
to  me)  when  you  will  love  each  other  peacefully 
and  your  hair  will  be  gray.  That  time  is  the  real 
honeymoon  we  wives  of  famous  men  do  have.  Let 
that  thought  comfort  you  in  the  anxieties  of  the 
present. 

This  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Death  is  the 
great  master  of  life,  and  it  is  close  to  the  former 
that  one  really  begins  to  understand  the  latter. 
Make  Pierre  happier  than  I  did,  child,  and  accept 
the  blessing  of  a  soul  purified  by  suffering. 


RESPECT 

(Le  Respect) 

Mile.  Zoe  Canisy 

To  the  Comte  Louis  de  la  Rivaudiere: 

WHEN  this  letter  reaches  you,  my  dear  Louis,  I 
shall  be  no  longer  in  Paris,  but  on  my  way  to  Italy 
with  Sir  William  Hopkins,  the  apoplectic  English- 
man whom  you  met  twice  at  my  house  during  the 
past  week  and  whom  I  brazenly  introduced  to  you 
as  my  uncle.  Sir  William  is  not  my  uncle.  He 
is  my  friend.  If  I  tell  you  this  abruptly  do  not 
think  that  I  am  doing  so  with  the  cruel  desire  to 
hurt  you.  No,  I  love  you,  I  still  love  you,  believe 
me,  only  our  liaison  was  condemned  to  come  to  a 
sudden  end,  having  been  based  upon  a  misunder- 
standing. Make  up  your  mind  courageously  to 
the  inevitable  and  once  again  listen  to  me — this 
experience  will  be  useful  to  you. 

Do  you  remember,  dear  friend,  the  way  we  be- 
came acquainted  with  each  other  toward  the  mid- 
dle of  June?  How  delightfully  romantic!  The 
sudden  heavy  shower,  the  same  carriage  hailed  by 
both  at  the  same  time,  the  coachman  stopping  be- 
fore you,  and  your  offering  me — with  the  most 

1 80 


RESPECT  181 

profound  bow — this  precious  shelter  on  wheels  of 
which  you  said  I  stood  in  greater  need  than  your- 
self— a  thousand  times  more.  You  showed  your- 
self so  perfect  in  manners  and  so  very  timid  at 
the  same  time  (for  you  hesitated  to  get  in  with  me, 
child !)  that  I  at  once  guessed  you  had  been  brought 
up  by  the  Good  Brothers  and  became  very  much 
infatuated. 

How  long  it  took  you  to  awake  to  the  fact !  I 
had  to  lead  you  step  by  step  until  finally  your  in- 
nocence took  a  plunge  at  my  feet.  But  before  it 
came  to  that  how  many  useless  measures  were 
played  through,  as  the  bandmaster  would  say. 
Five  or  six  meals  taken  tete-a-tete,  twenty  rendez- 
vous at  least,  during  which  our  talk  would  have 
edified  a  novitiate  of  the  Carmelite  Sisters.  And 
so  much  formality,  so  many  Madame — so  many 
When  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you — so  many 
Will  you  allow  me  to  see  you  home?  (As  if  I 
objected,  Silly!)  All  these  marks  of  respect  tried 
my  nerves  terribly.  After  leaving  you  I  almost  had 
hysterics.  I  would  promise  myself  to  send  you 
about  your  business,  never  to  see  you  again.  But 
you  see  I  was  infatuated,  and  infatuation  is  for  us 
women  a  modern  form  of  fatality. 

Finally,  when  your  white  robe  was  gently  cast 
aside — by  my  own  hand  and  without  any  help 
from  you — we  had  a  few  days  of  happiness.  Oh ! 


1 82  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

you  played  your  part  very  awkwardly,  dear,  make 
no  mistakes  on  that  score !  But  I  loved  you  much 
and  your  awkwardness  only  made  you  more  fas- 
cinating. Your  respect  was  in  no  way  diminished. 
You  treated  me  as  you  would  have  treated  Lady 
de  la  Rivaudiere  had  there  been  one.  When  it 
came  to  the  horrible  question  of — money — I  was 
much  more  embarrassed.  Personally  I  do  not  de- 
spise it — you  may  have  noticed  as  much.  Well, 
we  have  to  live,  and  as  I  was  perfectly  true  to  you 
all  my  savings  had  been  used  up.  You  are  ex- 
tremely generous  and  very  rich.  Yet  because  of 
the  accursed  respect  which  stopped  the  words  in 
your  throat  I  had  to  play  a  disgusting  comedy  in 
order  to  obtain  the  necessities  of  life.  Yes,  my 
dear  Comte,  if  I  invented  a  father — a  captain  of  a 
merchantman,  whose  ship  was  so  suddenly 
wrecked;  all  the  cargo  destroyed;  anxious  cred- 
itors; the  necessity  of  selling  my  home  and  fur- 
niture to  save  the  honor  of  the  family — you  alone 
are  responsible.  It  was  a  monumental  lie  and  I 
had  more  trouble  than  you  think,  believe  me,  to 
make  the  different  pieces  fit  together.  What  was 
I  to  do? 

Everything  was  at  last  satisfactorily  arranged. 
You  were  very  liberal,  you  did  everything  simply 
and  willingly.  I  would  have  asked  nothing  better, 
you  may  be  sure,  than  to  reward  you  by  a  more 


RESPECT  183 

active  tenderness,  a  little  less — what  shall  I  say? — 
monotonous  than  in  the  past.  No,  indeed!  As 
well  try  to  make  a  deaf  man  hear  or  a  blind  one 
see.  Heaven  knows  how  much  perseverance  and 
inspiration  I  had  to  bring  into  play.  Alas!  you 
would  look  away  for  fear  temptation  would  prove 
too  great  for  you  and  you  might  be  disrespectful 
to  me — to  me,  who  was  only  wishing  you  would. 
One  day,  having  had  a  little  champagne,  I  tried — 
Ah!  I  did  not  go  very  far — I  soon  discovered  by 
the  painful  expression  of  your  face  that  I  was  on 
the  wrong  road  and  drew  back  in  haste.  Acknowl- 
edge it — you  were  dreadfully  frightened! 

I  then  changed  my  tactics.  I  brought  the  con- 
versation skilfully  upon  suggestive  topics.  I  inno- 
cently questioned  you.  I  confided  to  you  conver- 
sations supposedly  heard  by  accident ;  I  wanted  ex- 
planations. How  funny  you  were — stammering, 
blushing — trying  to  change  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation. Cornered,  you  would  say:  "Yes — assuredly 
there  are  men  without  principles  who — bad  women 
who — ,"  etc.,  but  you,  you  would  never  love  a 
woman  without  showing  her  the  respect  you  would 
show  your  wife. 

Finally  I  let  you  alone  and  our  love  kept  its 
even  course,  seasoned  with  respect.  My  infatua- 
tion must  have  been  immense  to  survive  so  many 
proprieties.  It  did  survive  till  boredom  came  be- 


1 84  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

tween  us.  I  still  loved  you,  but  you  bored  me  to 
extinction.  The  very  qualities  that  had  made  me 
love  you  now  exasperated  me.  You  could  scarcely 
open  your  mouth  or  make  a  movement  without  irri- 
tating me.  I  would  gladly  have  lost  my  temper, 
been  disagreeable,  and  been  relieved  thereby;  but 
how  could  I  quarrel  with  a  man  who  always  ad- 
dresses one  as  though  she  were  a  princess,  bows 
before  her  slightest  wish  and  who  says  and  does 
everything  with  the  most  aggravating  perfection? 
Oh,  my  dear  Comte,  how  very  respectful  and  what 
a  bore  you  were  during  those  awful  days ! 

With  it  all  I  did  not  deceive  you.  Things  might 
have  gone  on  much  longer  in  the  same  way  had 
not  chance  taken  a  hand  in  the  game. 

Two  weeks  ago  I  was  coming  home  from  one  of 
our  mournful  seances,  tired,  my  teeth  on  edge, 
wishing  I  could  beat  some  one;  I  heard  a  step  be- 
hind me.  I  turned  partly  around.  I  saw  a  man 
about  forty-five  walking  heavily,  a  large  black 
cigar  in  his  mouth,  looking  every  inch  of  him  like 
an  English  sportsman.  I  hurried,  so  did  he.  I 
did  not  care  whether  he  found  out  or  not  where 
I  lived,  so  I  reached  my  house  without  apparently 
having  noticed  anything  unusual. 

I  was  in  my  room,  having  taken  off  my  hat  and 
veil,  when  suddenly  the  looking-glass  over  the 
mantel  reflected  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  fol- 


RESPECT  185 

lowed  me.  He  was  standing  quietly  behind  me, 
having  met  no  servant,  or  bribed  them  to  let  him 
pass. 

I  turned  around  angrily. 

"Sir,  how  dare  you  enter  a  woman's  house  in 
this  way?  Go,  before  I  have  you  thrown  out." 

He  did  not  move,  drew  his  pocketbook  out  and 
showed  several  banknotes. 

"I'll  give  you  money,  much  money.  I  like 
women  like  you — "  and  as  I  stretched  my  hand 
toward  the  bell  he  locked  the  door,  seized  my  hands 
and  said: 

"Why  not?" 

What  more  shall  I  tell  you,  my  dear  Louis?  Sir 
William  Hopkins,  for  it  was  he,  behaved  like  a 
brute,  and  now  that  I  know  him  better  I  am  not  at 
all  surprised,  for  he  has  about  as  much  refinement 
as  a  stable  boy.  A  woman's  soul  is  a  mystery  to 
herself.  His  roughness  relieved  the  tension  of  my 
nerves. 

My  new  friend  did  not  please  me  much,  but  he 
was  just  the  remedy  I  needed  to  cure  the  indiges- 
tion of  respect  from  which  I  was  suffering. 

Day  before  yesterday  he  suggested  I  accompany 
him  to  Italy,  travel  with  him  for  two  months.  All 
my  expenses  would  be  paid,  just  like  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt.  I  had  also  the  privilege  of  taking  two  ser- 
vants with  me. 


1 86  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

I  have  accepted. 

In  two  months  I  shall  be  back  in  Paris,  where  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  you,  if  you  care  to  come — on 
one  condition,  however,  and  that  is  that  you  will 
leave  respect  behind. 


MY  FIRST  REMORSE 
(Premier  Remords) 

AT  times,  looking  back  over  the  past,  thinking 
of  what  filled  my  life  and  made  it  a  delightful  spot 
of  lovely  memories  instead  of  the  barren  and 
mournful  years  it  would  have  been — had  begun  to 
be — I  would  try  hard  to  awaken  my  conscience,  to 
judge  myself  with  severity. 

After  all,  I  thought,  have  I  not  the  right  to  be 
perfectly  happy?  True,  my  happiness  is  in  a  meas- 
ure stolen.  I  am  cheating  society,  law  and  duty. 
I  have  not  been  true — I  have  been  deceiving  my 
husband  for  fourteen  years. 

I  would  try  very  hard  to  be  indignant  at  myself; 
it  seemed  to  me  I  should  have  been  less  criminal 
had  I  felt  any  remorse.  I  would  look  at  my  hus- 
band, peacefully  reading  his  newspaper  as  care- 
fully as  he  does  everything  else,  and  I  would  re- 
proach myself:  Here  is  a  good  man,  trusting  you 
with  his  good  name,  his  peace  of  mind.  How  have 
you  kept  your  trust  for  the  last  fourteen  years? 
If  this  good  man,  who  ploddingly  earns  his  living, 
yours  and  your  daughter's,  knew,  do  you  think 
the  joys  you  are  so  proud  of  could  outweigh  the 
sorrow  he  would  feel  ? 

187 


i88  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

Well,  he  does  not  know;  he  will  never  know. 
He  has  never  laid  eyes  on  the  man  for  whom  I 
deceive  him.  It  is  precisely  the  certainty  of  his 
security  which  keeps  me  from  feeling  any  remorse. 
Since  I  do  not  really  love  this  husband  of  mine, 
since  I  feel  for  him  only  affection  born  of  habit  due 
to  our  long  life  together,  I  owe  him  nothing  more 
than  to  make  his  life  a  peaceful  one  and  share  his 
interest.  No  matter  how  close  the  meshes  of  law 
and  proprieties  are,  a  woman  feels  duty  bound  to 
be  faithful  only  to  the  man  she  loves  with  her  whole 
heart  and  soul. 

Thus  was  I  thinking  yesterday,  and  to-day  I 
know  what  remorse  is.  I  know  it  so  well  that  I  do 
not  see  how  I  shall  live.  One  word  from  my  six- 
teen-year-old daughter,  Helene,  brought  it  about. 

I  brought  up  the  child  to  the  best  of  my  ability; 
if  I  am  not  a  blameless  wife,  I  am  at  least  a  good 
mother.  Few  girls,  I  believe,  have  been  better 
cared  for  during  their  childhood.  Even  when  I 
was  most  in  love  with  Lucien,  the  care  of  my 
daughter's  health  and  happiness  always  brought 
me  back  to  reason  and  proprieties.  For  her  sake 
I  would  not  consent  to  a  scandal. 

As  Helene  grew  up  I  jealously  watched  over  her 
as  well  as  myself.  I  certainly  made  greater  effort 
to  hide  the  truth  from  those  clear,  childish  eyes 
than  to  keep  my  husband  from  knowing  it.  Guilty, 


MY  FIRST  REMORSE  189 

soul-stained,  I  had  the  joy  to  bring  up  this  young 
soul  in  complete  ignorance.  Fearing  to  trust  my- 
self further,  I  placed  her,  at  the  age  of  ten,  in  a 
convent,  where  her  education  could  safely  be  at- 
tended to.  She  came  to  see  us  only  once  a  month, 
she  spent  two  weeks  with  us  during  the  holidays 
before  going  to  her  grandmother  in  the  country, 
and  naturally  during  that  time  all  relations  between 
Lucien  and  myself  were  suspended.  I  enjoyed  see- 
ing her  grow  up  deliciously  pure,  in  complete  ig- 
norance of  the  ugly  things  in  life.  This  was  also 
a  reason  why  I  felt  no  remorse.  However,  I  knew 
the  convent  could  not  keep  her  forever,  and  I  had 
resolved  to  marry  her  young.  Besides,  I  felt 
strong  enough  to  be  good  while  she  remained  with 
us  at  home. 

Helene  should  have  gone  back  to  her  convent 
yesterday  morning.  In  the  afternoon  I  had  a  ren- 
dezvous with  Lucien.  Yes,  such  blending  of 
motherly  duties  and  dissipation  is  perfectly  dread- 
ful, but  until  now  I  had  never  suffered  from  it.  I 
would  gladly  have  sacrificed  my  meeting  with  Lu- 
cien for  Helene's  sake.  F  was  to  have  seen  him 
to-day  at  three.  A  dispatch  came  in  the  morning 
from  the  convent,  informing  us  that  the  walls  of 
the  dormitory  had  been  painted  over  and  that  it 
had  been  decided  to  give  them  time  to  dry,  to  pro- 
long the  holidays  for  two  days.  Helene  was  very 


190  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

happy,  and  I  very  much  embarrassed.  I  thought 
of  sending  Lucien  a  telegram,  but  during  the  whole 
morning  my  daughter  did  not  leave  my  side.  I 
would  not  have  had  the  time  to  write,  still  less  to 
carry  the  telegram,  and  therefore  decided  to  do 
nothing.  Lucien  will  wait,  I  thought ;  he  will  think 
that  something  prevented  me  from  keeping  my  ap- 
pointment. 

He  did  wait,  in  fact,  one  hour,  two  hours ;  but, 
knowing  my  usual  promptness,  when  five  o'clock 
came  he  began  to  be  really  worried.  Perhaps  his 
not  having  seen  me  for  a  week  made  him  more 
anxious  to  see  me  again;  at  any  rate,  he  jumped 
into  the  first  hansom  he  met  and  had  himself  driven 
straight  to  our  house. 

The  maid,  who  does  not  know  Lucien  (I  tell 
you  the  secret  is  impenetrable),  came  in  shortly 
after  five  to  announce  that  a  gentleman  was  ask- 
ing for  me.  He  was  very  insistent  and  would  not 
take  no  for  an  answer.  I  stepped  into  my  hus- 
band's private  room,  for  he  was  not  home  yet,  and 
Helene  waited  for  me  in  the  next  room. 

When  I  saw  Lucien  it  seemed  to  me  that  every- 
thing was  lost,  the  truth  discovered,  my  misdeed 
known.  I  uttered  a  cry.  Lucien  tried  to  calm  me : 
"I  am  going  at  once,  but  why  did  you  not  come 
this  afternoon?"  I  know  not  what  I  answered,  I 
was  in  such  a  hurry  to  see  him  go.  He  did  not  in- 


MY  FIRST  REMORSE  191 

sist  on  staying,  being  sure  now  that  I  was  well. 
Before  going  back  to  Helene,  I  stepped  into  my 
own  room,  where  I  tried  to  regain  my  self-posses- 
sion. 

Helene  did  not  mention  the  wine  merchant  and 
I  had  not  the  courage  to  speak  of  him  first.  I 
could  not  lie  with  her  penetrating  eyes  upon  my 
face.  My  husband  came  home.  At  dinner  he  was 
very  gay,  being  glad  to  have  his  daughter,  whom 
he  loves  dearly,  one  evening  longer.  At  dessert 
he  asked: 

"Did  any  one  come  this  afternoon  while  I  was 
away?" 

I  felt  myself  turning  pale  and  faint.  I  wanted 
to  speak;  my  mouth  refused  to  utter  a  syllable, 
and  suddenly  I  heard  my  daughter's  voice  reply 
calmly : 

"No,  father,  no  one  came." 

I  looked  at  her;  our  eyes  met.  Hers  were  smil- 
ing and  clearly  saying:  "Have  no  fear,  I'll  stand 
by  you." 

I  could  not  sleep  all  night.  I  am  ashamed  of 
myself.  Yes,  I  am  severely  punished,  for  my  child 
has  not  only  guessed  (long  ago  perhaps)  her 
mother's  shame,  but  has  learned,  by  the  example  I 
set  her,  to  deceive,  to  lie  for  me  and  better  than  1 
can. 


THE    HUSBAND    OF    MADEMOISELLE 

HEUDIER 
(Le  Mari  de  Mile.  Heudier) 

I 

I  believe  I  shall  not  be  long  in  this  valley  of 
sorrows.  There  is  only  one  important  event  in  the 
life  of  an  old  maid,  a  cheerful  one  on  the  whole  in 
spite  of  the  solitary  years.  Behold,  this  event  is 
vanishing;  it  no  longer  is  and  never  was.  It  was  a 
mistake.  Only  my  dog  Moustache  and  my  har- 
monium remain,  with  the  care  of  my  eternal  salva- 
tion. Hum !  it's  little  enough !  If  I  were  a  young 
person  in  love  I  should  at  least  have  the  resource 
of  writing  my  secret  sorrows  in  a  prettily  bound 
diary.  But  one  doesn't  start  new  habits  at  forty- 
three. 

I  have  been  in  love  and  loved  from  fourteen  to 
forty-three,  until  yesterday  at  half-past  two  in  the 
afternoon.  Are  there  many  professional  beauties 
in  Paris  or  in  London  who  could  boast  of  as  much, 
with  never  any  disputes,  never  any  unfaithfulness? 
Twenty-nine  years  of  perfect  love ! 

This  is  how  our  love  started. 

My  father  was  a  modest  man  who  held  a  gov- 
192 


MLLE.  HEUDIER'S  HUSBAND     193 

ernment  position  in  the  administration  of  revenues, 
one  of  those  men  who  never  reach  a  very  prominent 
position  because  each  time  that  there  is  a  vacancy 
some  man  less  timid,  or  with  more  friends  to  help 
him,  hastens  to  obtain  it.  He  merely  vegetated  all 
his  life  in  Sarthe,  where  he  had  been  sent  the  day 
after  his  marriage,  and  where  I  was  born  and  grew 
up. 

It  was  there,  at  Givry,  that  I  became  acquainted 
with  "my  husband."  My  parents  and  his  had  at 
once  called  him  thus,  this  little  Lucien  who  came  to 
spend  his  holidays  at  home. 

We  were  neighbors.  He  was  one  of  five  chil- 
dren, and  his  father,  a  good  man,  could  with  some 
difficulty  provide  for  the  wants  of  a  wife  and  large 
family.  Beside  them  my  parents,  who  had  a  little 
income  of  their  own  and  only  one  child,  were  al- 
most rich.  My  spontaneous  consent  to  a  marriage 
with  Lucien  was  certainly  free  from  pecuniary 
thoughts ;  moreover,  we  were  both  fourteen,  he  two 
months  older  than  I.  At  that  age  money  does  not 
stand  in  the  way. 

Lucien  and  I  were  nice  little  lovers.  He  was  ex- 
tremely timid,  very  kindly  disposed,  although  some- 
what taciturn;  I  managed  him  altogether.  I  had 
convinced  him  that  he  was  my  husband;  he  accepted 
the  fact.  To  be  my  husband  between  fourteen  and 
eighteen  meant  for  him  to  be  tied  to  my  petticoat 


194  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

strings,  like  a  younger  brother,  during  holiday  time, 
in  August  and  September. 

Once  in  a  while  we  kissed  each  other;  it  gave  us 
about  as  much  thrill  as  the  slaps  which  we  might 
happen  to  exchange. 

I  am  beginning  to  believe,  after  forty-three  years 
of  peace,  that  I  have  a  rather  cold  temperament; 
as  to  Lucien,  up  to  the  time  he  left  me  he  was  noth- 
ing but  a  little  girl,  and  perhaps  I  was  not  the  most 
innocent.  Separation  came  when  we  were  eighteen. 
Thanks  to  the  good  offices  of  a  deputy,  the  Leter- 
tres  had  found  for  Lucien  an  unexpected  position. 

A  rich  Englishman  who  had  spent  his  life 
in  business  all  over  the  globe  wished  to  have  as  a 
companion  a  young  Frenchman,  so  that  he  could 
travel  now  for  his  pleasure.  He  wanted  a  young 
Frenchman  for  a  companion,  believing  that  the 
conversation  of  French  people  is  witty,  diverting, 
and  pleasant.  Lucien,  in  spite  of  the  real  feelings 
he  showed  when  he  left  me,  was  naturally  intoxi- 
cated at  the  thought  of  travelling  all  over  the 
world. 

Future  plans  were  not  forgotten.  "As  soon  as 
the  old  soap  merchant  (it  was  the  Englishman 
Robinson's  Soap)  has  given  me  enough  guineas  I 
shall  come  back  and  marry  you."  We  did  not 
realize  how  long  it  would  take  before  we  had 
enough  guineas,  but  evidently  thought  it  would  be 


MLLE.  HEUDIER'S  HUSBAND     195 

a  short  time  to  wait  for  our  marriage,  perhaps  only 
a  few  months. 

That  happened  twenty-five  years  ago.  Twenty- 
five  years !  Long  enough  for  a  woman  usually  to 
raise  a  family,  and  often  to  see  another  generation 
succeed  her  children. 

As  for  me,  I  have  waited  for  marriage,  children, 
life,  for  twenty-five  years.  I  know  well  that  no 
one  would  believe  me,  or  that  I  would  pass  for  a 
lunatic  if  I  made  this  confidence  to  any  one  else  but 
myself.  However,  it  is  true. 

For  twenty-five  years  my  only  reason  for  living, 
or  finding  life  sometimes  agreeable,  was  that  I 
loved  some  one  and  that  some  one  loved  me. 

My  father  died,  then  my  mother.  The  small 
fortune  I  possessed  was  greatly  reduced  through 
the  bad  management  of  my  lawyer,  but  I  lived  on 
hopeful  and  with  confidence  in  the  future. 

Without  seeing  Lucien  once  in  twenty-five  years  ? 

Yes;  without  seeing  him  again.  I  sincerely  be- 
lieved all  that  time  that  he  loved  me,  because  dur- 
ing these  twenty-five  years  he  regularly  wrote  me 
and  he  never  made  me  feel  that  anything  had  been 
changed  regarding  our  future  projects.  His  letters 
were  full  of  the  same  good  affection  which  I  showed 
in  mine. 

He  was  seeing  a  great  deal  of  the  world  during 
that  time :  Egypt,  North  Africa,  Russia,  India,  the 


i96  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

two  Americas.  He  travelled  all  over  in  company 
of  Robinson's  Soap.  From  time  to  time  he  would 
go  through  France,  but  in  such  haste  that  he  never 
could  find  the  necessary  twenty-four  hours  to  come 
to  Givry  and  see  "his  wife."  His  wife!  He  still 
called  me  that  in  his  letters.  I  answered  always, 
"My  dear  husband." 

II 

Yesterday  about  two  o'clock,  as  I  was  practising 
on  my  harmonium  a  piece  that  I  was  to  play  in 
church  next  Sunday,  my  little  maid  came  to  tell 
me  that  a  lady  wished  to  see  me.  She  was  an  old 
friend  of  my  parents  who  had  become  an  important 
official  in  education,  a  general  inspector  in  the  pub- 
lic schools,  I  believe.  She  was  going  through 
Givry,  glad  to  show  her  success  to  those  who  had 
known  her  as  a  young  girl.  We  talked  about  half 
an  hour,  mentioning  some  people  we  had  known 
mutually.  Finally  she  said : 

"Do  you  still  hear  about  Monsieur  Letertre?" 

"Lucien  Letertre?" 

"Yes,  the  one  who  married  in  England  and  lives 
in  Derbyshire." 

I  had  strength  enough  left  to  answer: 

"No,  I  have  lost  sight  of  him,"  and  I  asked  a 
few  details  about  Lucien,  which  she  gave  me  in- 


MLLE.  HEUDIER'S  HUSBAND     197 

stantly.  It  semed  that  only  recently  she  had  been 
sent  to  England  to  inspect  the  organization  of 
manual  schools,  and  that  in  passing  through  Derby- 
shire whom  did  she  meet  at  Derby  in  the  Robin- 
son's Soap  manufacture?  My  husband,  Lucien 
Letertre,  heir  to  old  Robinson,  a  married  man  and 
father  of  three  children. 

When  I  was  alone  I  cried  a  little,  then  I  laughed 
at  the  old  foolish  woman  that  I  have  been  to  be- 
lieve that  a  man  remains  faithful  twenty-five  years 
to  a  memory.  It  is  true  that  to  this  memory  I 
have  given  all  my  youth  and  some  beauty  which 
might  have  caught  me  a  husband.  I  started  to  write 
to  Lucien  reproaching  him,  telling  him  of  the  use- 
lessness  of  his  letters.  Then  reflection  stopped  me. 
Thanks  to  this  lie,  I  have  been  happy  for  twenty- 
five  years.  What  might  have  been  these  years 
without  this  happy  illusion  in  which  Lucien  kept 
me?  Perhaps  he  knew  that.  That  is  probably 
what  prevented  him  from  telling  me  nine  years 
ago,  when  he  married,  "My  dear  Adele,  you  must 
no  longer  think  about  me." 

I  must  be  strong  and  not  grieve  too  much.  Dur- 
ing twenty-five  years  I  imagined  that  I  was  mar- 
ried; to-day  I  am  a  widow  or  divorced,  that's  all. 
I  am  thinking.  He  has  three  children.  Suppose 
I  should  write  him  a  good  letter,  very  affectionate, 
and  ask  him  to  send  to  me  one  of  his  children,  one 


198  SIMPLY  WOMEN 

that  I  would  raise  and  educate  here,  with  not  as 
much  luxury  as  if  at  home  in  England,  but  like  a 
little  French  boy,  speaking  the  language  of  his 
father  when  he  was  in  love  with  me.  Truly,  can 
Lucien  refuse  me  that?  Then  to  love  and  care  for 
this  little  one  would  make  me  patiently  wait  for 
the  road  which  leads  from  my  house  to  my  last  rest. 

These  thoughts  leave  me  quite  cheerful.  Come ! 
old  foolish  Adele  Heudier,  put  on  your  spectacles 
and  your  best  writing  pen.  Write  to  the  heir  of 
Robinson's  Soap. 

With  a  little  kindness  and  courage  one  can  over- 
come one's  bad  fortune.  You  will  be  a  mother,  as 
you  have  been  a  wife,  in  imagination  I 


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